


Lost Phoenix

by sshp4ever



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lot of bad stuff happen first, Anal Sex, Angst, Character Death, Child Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Harry/Snape, Gets worse before it gets better, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape, Sexual Assault, Slash, Slow Build, Squick, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshp4ever/pseuds/sshp4ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is at the Dursley's for the summer. After a traumatic encounter with his uncle, Harry gets abandoned on the outskirts of London. Who will save him? Post-OOTP. Snarry Slash. Hurt/Comfort. Some non-con early in the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Animals

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N: Starts in the fifth book and splits from the canon after Harry exits Dumbledore’s office at the end of the school year. In case you don’t remember, Dumbledore gives a Portkey to Harry while they’re still at the Ministry. It takes Harry to the Headmaster’s office, where he is to wait for Dumbledore to follow. When Dumbledore arrives a little while later, Harry rages at him with his adolescent bravado and even breaks a bunch of the headmaster’s possessions. After Harry has run out of steam, Dumbledore convinces (this is where my versions differs, since in the canon it’s assumed that Dumbledore has succeeded in reassuring Harry) him that he was not responsible for his godfather’s death. They also discuss the prophecy.**

***The prophecy was from _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ , obviously _._**

* * *

Harry was sure he was about to lose his mind. If Ron or Hermione said one more thing about Sirius, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to control himself. He was currently trying to make himself as small as humanly possible, leaning against the window of their shared compartment. His goal was to make himself disappear, so his friends would have no one left to badger and be forced to abandon whinging at him.

Whilst the Hogwarts Express bumped steadily along, Harry rolled his forehead against the cool, damp glass. He stared out blindly, not taking in the scenery. His thoughts became increasingly introspective. Not for the first time that day, he found his mind wandering back to the events at the Ministry. The vision of Sirius falling through the Veil swam behind his eyes and he was forced to squeeze his lids shut to stop tears from spilling over. _It’s all my fault_ kept repeating itself like a mantra in his head. _It’s all my fault._

Harry dug his nails into his palms reflexively, his breath fogging up window and hiding his haunted face from view. After the revealing conversation with the headmaster, Harry had not been able to repress the feeling that he was still partially responsible for death of Sirius Black. Despite all his attempts otherwise, the interminable guilt overwhelmed him.

As if the universe was conspiring against him, Hermione chose that moment to speak up again.

“Harry, please,” she pleaded a tone of worry lacing her voice. “Come on, please get up. We’re about to pull into the station.” She looked up at him nervously, then back down in trepidation. “Harry,” she implored, “Ron and I are just concerned for you. I mean, honestly, you haven’t said a word to us all week! We can’t let you go back to the Dursley’s when you’re so miserable.” Hermione continued hastily, “You should go home with Ron, or you can even come to Prague with me and my parents. We just don’t want you to be alo—”

Harry had finally had more than enough. It had been the same thing all week. Both of his friends had told him that he wasn’t acting normally and that they wouldn’t be good friends if they left alone in this state. This had frustrated him to no end. Ron and Hermione had been following him everywhere, even neglecting their prefect duties to “babysit” him. Consequently, he had had none of the alone time that he so desperately craved. He needed time to sort out all his thoughts. Their stifling presence did nothing to aid his composure; the breaking point had finally been reached and his temper boiled over, resulting in a long-overdue explosion of pent-up emotional turmoil.

“Hermione, SHUT THE HELL UP! I am fine!” Harry yelled, “Or I would be if you and Ron would just lay the fuck off! And I’ve already told you that I can’t go to the Burrow or on holiday with you. Dumbledore said I had to go back to the Dursley’s, at least for the beginning of the summer. And I’m glad, because I’ll finally get some peace and quiet without your constant nagging!”

Even while he shouted these words, Hermione’s eyes were filling up with tears and Ron’s face was steadily becoming a vivid shade of red. But Harry just kept yelling, finding it oddly therapeutic, until Ron interrupted in Hermione’s defense.

“Mate! Stop talking to her like that. She’s just trying to help,” Ron interjected, making himself heard over Harry’s tirade. “Harry,” he continued in a lower voice, no longer competing with the now-silent wizard. “We’re just worried about you—”

“Why can’t you two just understand that I need to be alone sometimes?” Harry snapped hotly. “Especially after…” he trailed off. Harry looked away angrily, upset with himself. At some point during his outburst, he had risen to his feet. The need to be away from these people—his _friends_ —suddenly overcame him. Acting quickly, he grabbed his trunk and Hedwig. Then, with a final hurried glare at his clearly wounded friends, he stormed out of the compartment, leaving a tearful Hermione and a crimson-faced Ron in his wake.

After a few seconds of blindly charging down the train’s narrow corridor, Harry realized he had frustrated tears coursing down his cheeks. Coming to the very definite conclusion that he didn’t want to be found in this state by any of the train’s occupants, Harry hastily made his way to the back of the Hogwarts Express, where there was always an empty cabin or two. Upon finding one and closing the compartment door with a little more force than necessary and locking it with a silent _Colloportus,_ he slumped against the cushions and tried to calm his erratic breathing.

Once his breathing had returned to normal and the angry tears had been wiped away, Harry blew out an agitated breath. He really hated losing his temper. He knew that he was being completely irrational, and that Hermione was just looking out for him like she always did, but he couldn’t seem to tolerate her fussing recently. All he wanted was some time alone to collect his thoughts and attempt to come to terms with the reality that he was never going to see his godfather again. Not to mention the life-altering prophecy that Dumbledore had only recently told him about. Out of spite, Harry hadn’t told Ron or Hermione about it, but knew he would have to eventually.

As he sat there wallowing in self-pity, the calamitous words rattled to the forefront of his mind for the first time since leaving the Headmaster’s office:

_“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… And the Dark Lord will mark him as equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”_

Harry shuddered at the thought of having to kill anyone, but was even more frightened of dying himself. Fortunately, before those morose thoughts could consume him, there was a sudden knock on his compartment door. Cursing his declining luck, Harry stood up, rubbing his face to get rid of any stray tears, and unlocked the compartment door. Without even looking at the figure in the doorway, he turned back around. “You might as well come in and sit down, Ron.”

Harry could practically feel his friend’s embarrassment as he entered the compartment and sat down across from Harry on the cushions. Ron cleared his throat and averted his eyes awkwardly as Harry closed and relocked the compartment door with a flick of his wand.

            Impatient to be alone again, Harry hissed, “Spit it out, Ron.” Despite Harry’s already-short temper, he was actually relieved that Ron had come looking for him alone. Hermione was currently too overbearing for him to coexist with her at the moment.

            “Look, mate, sorry for Hermione being so stubborn, but she really is just worried about you. We both are.” Holding up a hand to Harry’s sardonic expression, a determined-looking Ron quickly continued, “I know you need to be on your own for a bit, but you can still come over to the Burrow any time this summer. Hermione’s going to be there the second week of August.” They sat in silence for a bit. “Hermione and I are still your friends even when it seems like we’re purposefully trying to annoy the piss out of you.”

            For the first time in a while, Harry smiled. “Thanks Ron…for understanding. I’ll think about visiting in August. It depends on how horrible the Dursley’s are this summer,” Harry grimaced. “Hopefully they’ll not be too bad.”

Harry considered entrusting the prophecy to Ron, but when he looked up, Ron had a smile on his face. He didn’t want to burden his carefree friend with the devastating information, especially directly after the first cordial exchange they had shared since the night at the Ministry. It could wait.

            Ron smiled. “No problem, mate. Oh, and Hermione made me promise to tell you to send her your O.W.L. scores as soon as you get them.”

            “Sure,” was the only reply Harry could manage; he began feeling melancholy again—a response triggered by any mention of the O.W.L.’s. They were just another reminder of the day he lost his godfather.

            Ron, upon seeing Harry’s discomfort, stood and made to leave the compartment. He paused in the doorway and then turned back to Harry. “See you in August,” he said before sliding the door shut behind him.

“Maybe…” was Harry’s inaudible reply.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

           

            Little time had passed before the whistle blew, signaling that they were rapidly approaching the station. Harry began preparing himself for what promised to be a very long summer. He grabbed Hedwig’s cage and lugged his school trunk off the shelf above his head. Then he waited until the train came to stop before slowly making his way off with his possessions, dreading what he knew would be a miserable holiday.

Upon exiting the train, Harry’s eyes automatically roved the crowd in search of his friends. However, upon making brief eye contact with them and receiving only pitying expressions in return, he abruptly spun around and hurried away in the opposite direction. After he had created a fair distance between him and his friends, Harry quickly made his way to the exit of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Taking a deep breath in order to steel himself for the ill-fated reunion with his relatives, Harry set off for the parking lot where he knew his uncle would be waiting for him.

Too soon for his liking, Harry could see the familiar beefy, purple face above the crowds by the front entrance to King’s Cross Station. Gathering himself, Harry adopted a careful, neutral expression as he approached his uncle. “You’re late, boy,” Vernon sneered. “You know what that means? Double the chores!”

Harry knew what would happen should he respond. So he maintained his vacant countenance and remained silent as he followed his uncle to the vehicle. Harry slid into the back seat while Vernon stuffed his possessions haphazardly into the boot of the car. He winced when he heard Hedwig hooting indignantly as her cage was wedged in beside his trunk.

Thirty minutes later, Harry was sure that anymore of this torture would turn his brains to mush. From the moment his uncle had entered the vehicle, Harry had been on the receiving end of a constant stream of verbal abuse. Even though he was used to this treatment from his relatives, his current temperament didn’t coincide well with Uncle Vernon's continuous name-calling. Even worse was how Vernon was nowhere close to being out of steam.

“Are you listening to me? Your kind is so useless. And YOU, you’re the worst of them, always daydreaming about nothing. Your good-for-nothing father was the same; I bet he drank himself into a stupor daily. You’re all complete faggots! You’re not fit to live in my house. With all the trouble you and your freaky friends cause, I wouldn’t trust you not burn the place down.”

Harry just glared out the window, no longer able to sustain his disinterested expression. He would have liked to completely disregard every malicious thing his uncle was saying about him, but some of it was hitting very close to home.

It was true that Harry was a troublemaker in that he was constantly ruining everything set before him. One only needed to look at the events that took place in the Department of Mysteries to see the truth; he did have a rather unfortunate tendency to destroy things he cared about. Anger boiled up within him as he continued his attempt at ignoring his uncle. Aggravation towards himself, not Vernon, turned his thoughts once again inward and replayed every little thing he had done wrong the night his godfather had been murdered.

These were the thoughts that occupied his mind for the remainder of the drive.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

“BOY! Come here, you good-for-nothing little freak,” sneered Uncle Vernon, who seemed now, to be the cat that had swallowed the canary. “No, boy, leave that shit there and come along!”

Harry stopped his unsuccessful attempt at retrieving his school trunks from the boot of the car and unhappily trotted after a very self-satisfied Vernon. To Harry’s surprise and apprehension, instead of leading him into the house, Uncle Vernon strode around the side of the residence and entered the back garden. Upon rounding the bend, Harry stopped in his tracks, suddenly hesitant at what he saw. Any passerby would have thought nothing of the sight that now lay before him, but after spending an hour in the company of a ranting Vernon Dursley, he was suddenly filled with an intense foreboding. This irrational sensation screamed for him to take flight, sensing danger. But before Harry could bolt, Vernon had grabbed ahold of his upper arm and was dragging him towards the source of his uncertainty.

The Dursley’s back garden had been invaded by a small, wooden doghouse. He knew instinctually it did not foretell a pleasant summer. Vernon's face split into a broad smirk as Harry took in the metal dog tin and the length of chain fixed to a grounded stake. Whatever the significance of these objects, they meant nothing beneficial for him.

 “Do you know what this is?” Vernon taunted, gesturing towards the dog house.

For a moment Harry thought it was a rhetorical question, but upon considering the likelihood of his uncle knowing what “rhetorical” meant, promptly said, albeit a bit mockingly, “That’s a dog house, sir.”

His cheek earned him a firm clout to the back of the head, making him stumble slightly.

“BOY, stop being so disrespectful!”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry mumbled in a decidedly careful monotone, as to not encourage any more blows to his head.

“Good, it seems you can identify common objects. Now, boy, what is that, there?” Vernon demanded with no little amount of smug satisfaction.

“That’s a dog bowl, Uncle Vernon,” Harry replied, already not looking forward to picking up after whatever new pet Dudley had convinced his parents to buy him.

“Correct again, boy. Can you tell me what those two things are?” a red-faced Vernon asked him. The uncontained glee was so evident that Harry thought his uncle would explode  at any moment.

“A post and chain, Uncle Vernon,” Harry recited. He was imagining all the extra days of work he would have to do to preserve the gardens with a dog roaming around. His enthusiasm for the summer ahead was dwindling by the moment and Ron’s offer kept flashing through his mind like a steak to a starving wolf.

“And what, boy, do you think would live in a dog house?”

Harry had never had to fight so hard in his life not to roll his eyes. Gritting his teeth, Harry replied in an overly-calm voice, “A dog, Uncle Vernon.”

“Exactly! And can you tell me why I would have bought this dog house if we don’t own a dog?” Vernon asked giddily.

Harry hesitated. _They didn’t have a dog? Vernon_ would _do something like this, buying a doghouse before the dog. By now Dudley’s probably changed his mind about a dog anyway._ But for some reason he was not reassured. A strange foreboding, one quite similar to the feeling he had the night that Sirius had died. But that was impossible…nothing so horrible could become of a doghouse, unless there was a tiny, feral breed of dragon that now inhabited Little Whinging.

And so Harry responded with a measured, “I don’t know, sir,” praying that nothing was about to charge out and take a bite out of him.

However, the probability of his wish coming true greatly diminished as Vernon began to cackle. The sinister chuckle brought the memory of Lucius Malfoy to the forefront of his mind; Harry recalled the same smug happiness from the night at the Ministry. He stiffened reflexively. But he reassured himself there was no danger. After a quick scan of the garden, and finding it free of dragons and Death Eaters, he still felt ill-at-ease. He decided it would not be wise to be out in the open and began to shuffle backwards towards the house.

But suddenly there was beefy hand squeezing Harry around the neck, forcefully halting his retreat. The fingers constricted and he was lifted off the ground. His ears were ringing with that malicious laughter while his hands scrambled in a futile attempt for release from his uncle’s fat fist. Harry’s eyes were focused on the doghouse. He used it as an anchor, keeping his thoughts as organized and rational as possible, while his body was a mess of convulsing jolts and shudders. The pounding of his heart drowned out all other noises as lightheadedness overwhelmed him, muddling his consciousness and making the world twirl around sickeningly. He couldn’t focus properly; his vision started to blur, fading into a gray fog around the edges.

Suddenly, everything clicked: Vernon's incessant ramblings about his inadequacy as a human being, his insisting that Harry leave his belongings in the car, and the seemingly-random appearance of a doghouse in the back garden. Horrified, Harry increased his struggling. Thankfully, this prompted Vernon to ease the pressure on his undoubtedly already-bruised neck. However, it also brought with it the return of the ominous cackling.

After Vernon had stopped his obnoxious guffawing and caught his breath, he leered down at Harry. “I see you’ve finally figured it out, boy. It’s about time, too. I would have started wondering if they taught you anything at all at that rubbish school of yours.” Harry couldn’t recall a time his uncle had looked so pleased, not since the time he’d had freed the snake at the zoo (thus giving Vernon an excuse to lock him in his cupboard for weeks). “How do you like your new home, boy? Bet you’ll feel right at home in there.”

This was accentuated by Vernon shoving Harry’s head down towards the post. Faster than he thought a man that size could move, Vernon had wrapped the chain around Harry’s neck. He could hear a padlock click shut a few inches below his ear, fastening, Harry imagined, the end of the chain to a middle link. It was just tight enough around his throat to be considered uncomfortable.

Harry, never one to stand by and take it, lunged to grab hold of Vernon's shirt with both fists despite being awkwardly bent over, due to the unsatisfactory length of chain. But before he could take advantage of the little leverage he had, he found himself flat on his back. He could feel the blood gushing from his nose and could already feel his left eye beginning to swell. His glasses, from what he glimpsed before Vernon pocketed them, were mangled and cracked.  When he tried to sit up, the world spun; his head felt heavy and he felt the need to close his eyes. His face throbbed painfully.

Before he could adequately recover, his uncle had swooped down and dragged him up to eye-level. Even with hazed vision and ringing ears, Harry managed to understand everything Vernon hissed at him.

“Don’t you _dare_ touch me, boy! I shouldn’t have to be contaminated by the likes of you! In fact, do you know what I’m going to do? Hmmm? I’m going to go burn all that rubbish; don’t want that filth in my house. Especially that goddamned bird! I’ve been waiting years to shut that thing up…do you think I should burn it, too? Or just break its little neck? Don’t look so upset. Dogs don’t need books anyway,” and with that Vernon released Harry, who fell to the ground limply.

The last thing Harry saw before his vision faded to black was his uncle waddling away towards the house.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

He awoke to the smell of burning parchment and the sight of a mutilated snowy owl that now only vaguely resembled his old pet. The first day of Harry Potter’s summer holiday began with a sob.


	2. Waiting

**Chapter Two:** Waiting

* * *

 

Harry didn’t have long to orient himself after the shock of waking to the sight of his dead and brutalized familiar. He hadn’t been awake a mere ten seconds before he was hit with a frigid blast of water. Choking from the shock and the initial lack of air, Harry stumbled into a crouch. Holding his hands up to shield his face from the torrents of chilly liquid, he was just able to peer through the spray and spot the madman responsible for his unexpected wake-up call.

 “Stop your sniveling, boy!” Vernon jeered, seeming wide awake despite the sun having yet to rise. “You’ve chores to do. And if you’re anything like your good-for-nothing father, you’ll need a head start.”

If Harry hadn’t been so dazed from recent events, he might have made an attempt to defend his parentage. As it was, he barely had the consciousness to take offense; not only was he numb from being drenched with freezing water, but he was emotionally drained as well. This wasn’t even taking into consideration his ever increasing hunger—choosing that moment to make itself known with an indignant rumble from his stomach—or the lack of restful sleep.

Even as Harry appraised all his body’s complaints, Vernon was thrusting a rather long piece of paper in front of Harry’s nose.

“Look here. You had better have all these chores completed by tonight—pay attention, dog!” Vernon roared unnecessarily, spittle landing on Harry’s face and mixing with remnants of his icy wake up call. “If you don’t finish”—his voice lowered threateningly—“I’ll have Petunia scrape your dinner into the rubbish bin. How would you like that?” His Uncle’s lip curled back with such spiteful glee that Harry noticed an uncanny resemblance to Snape after the Potions Master had asked a particularly difficult question of which no one would have any chance of answering correctly. Harry had come to associate the expression with suffering.

Seeing no alternative action, Harry—mumbling a “yes, sir”—simply took the list and glanced down to see what his relatives had in store for him. He wasn’t surprised to see a long, tedious list of tasks that would likely take him all day to complete. In request to Vernon, Harry took hold of the chain around his neck and raised an inquiring brow. His uncle, for the first time since Harry had arrived in Privet Drive, looked rather irritated. Harry wondered if the man hadn’t realized that he would have to be unleashed in order to do the many chores assigned him. But with a jangle of keys and a few disgruntled mumbles about Harry’s terrible uselessness, Vernon released him.

Once free of the bulky chains, Harry slowly pushed himself up and upon righting himself, spotted the smoking ashes of all his former belongings. Instead of inciting a normal reaction—anger—all he felt was sorrow for that he had lost.

After Uncle Vernon had reentered the house—undoubtedly to go back to bed—Harry set to work. He took a good look at the list: weeding the garden; mowing the lawn; dusting; cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner; vacuuming, sweeping, and mopping; doing the laundry; making the beds; taking out the trash; doing the dishes; repainting the fence; were only half of the things he’d have to complete before he was given supper. He sighed with exasperation, and decided that accomplishing all the outdoor tasks early would be most prudent.

So, with a long sigh, Harry set about weeding the Dursley’s overgrown garden.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

By evening, he could hardly move. After a muggy morning full of strenuous weeding and trimming, every move sent currents of pain spiking through Harry’s exhausted body. His muscles were sore from the intense manual labor. Sweat beaded up on his fringe and dripped down into his eyes as it had while he had labored during the day. It had taken him until noon to finish clearing out the back garden and mow the lawn, since he had to stop multiple times to prepare food for his walrus of a cousin. Petunia had squawked at him several times throughout the afternoon to hurry up, as he had cooked, cleaned, and washed the laundry, savoring the time he had indoors.

Now he was currently lugging out the garbage. He wondered how the air could still be so stifling even after the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon. He deposited the heap of rubbish in the bin at the end of the alley and began to trudge back towards Number Four. He dreaded making dinner; it was torture enough to be made to do copious amounts of manual labor during one’s summer holidays, but Harry thought it was simply criminal to taunt a ravenous teenage boy with the sweet smell of sustenance. He had yet to be given food that day, and honestly didn’t look forward to being taunted by whatever meal Petunia expected him to prepare.

Sighing heavily, Harry made his way through the front door and into the kitchen, already rolling up the sleeves of his filthy jersey. Harry groaned despondently. As if Petunia and Vernon had united to make Harry’s day a living hell, pork chops with peas and mashed potatoes—his favorites—were waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Undoubtedly, he would not be allowed any of it. Even worse was dessert: Petunia had laid out a recipe for fudge. His mouth watered while his stomach gurgled obnoxiously. Steeling himself with a self-deprecating grimace, Harry got to work.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

Harry wasn’t quite sure how it had happened. Well, he knew how, but he still wondered at the absurdity that was his life. All he had done was try to eat his dinner, but apparently he couldn’t even do something that simple correctly.

When Petunia had snapped at him to “hurry up and eat your supper” he had all but scurried to obey, hoping to avoid both her and Vernon's wrath. Quickly snatching up a plate Harry had made his way over to the stove where leftovers from dinner, that he had prepared earlier, remained. After scraping the remnants of mashed potatoes and peas—the mouthwatering pork chops and fudge had been, as expected, devoured—onto his plate, Harry tiredly plopped down at the kitchen table.   

But before he could even get a bite in, Dudley was shouting about how Harry was “stealing” their food and, in the blink of an eye, he was being torn away from his rations and into the back yard. That had been over five minutes ago.

Shoes were rather hard, Harry realized; the firsthand experience he was suffering through at least convincing him of that. Vicious kicks to his arms, legs, and back rattled him so cruelly that it became hard to stay alert. His vision began to cloud, from blood dripping into his eyes, and he could hear a faint ringing as the blows reigned down. Finally, Harry could no longer maintain his stoic silence—having run out of lip to bite through—and started to whimper, eventually bawling out apologies. The beating had been going on so long now that Harry’s body no longer throbbed, but was mercifully numb. Despite this, Harry couldn’t help the humiliating pleas for mercy that tumbled from his lips through the tears, snot, and blood. Nonetheless, Vernon and his spawn refused to cease their ministrations for quite a while.

Suddenly, the blows halted, but instead of relief, Harry felt himself being dragged to his feet and shaken rather violently.

“Look, Dad, the pansy’s crying,” Dudley guffawed. Harry vaguely wondered what his cousin had been expecting after beating him so badly.

“He always was a wimpy little runt, just like his father,” Vernon sneered into Harry’s face, as if not quite understanding the concept of personal space. Jerking him around, the large man hauled Harry over to the doghouse and reattached the cumbersome chain. And taking a step back, Vernon and his spawn began to admire their handiwork.

“Boy, next time you steal from my house you will lose the privilege of staying here,” Vernon hissed down at a nearly comatose Harry. Lips curling into a heinous sneer and manic eyes gleaming menacingly, Vernon added, “But only after receiving a punishment a million times worse than this.” His uncle grinned as he lumbered back to the house, casting one more malevolent glance back at his damaged nephew.

As he slowly slipped into the wonderful detachment of unconsciousness, Harry pondered Vernon's parting words. _What could possibly be worse than being beaten into a pulp?_ Harry wondered. Not overly enthusiastic to find out, he resolved that going by unnoticed for the remainder of the summer holiday would be his best course of action. But now it was time to sleep.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

**Far away from 4 Privet Drive…**

_Fuck_ , thought an annoyed Severus Snape. He was already having a shit day, and this temper tantrum wasn’t improving it any. _Why do I have to put up with this shit? Albus could have just insisted I stay at the castle all summer. But NO! The old coot always thinks he knows best. He’s never had to live through one of the Dark Lord’s rages._

He’d just apparated into their current lair: an old abandoned castle along the eastern coast, far north of London. After the Dark Lord had grown tired of the décor at Malfoy Manor, Antonin Dolohov had been assigned the task of scouting out a new haunt for the Death Eaters. Unfortunately, Dolohov, like Voldemort, had a bizarre penchant for shabby dilapidated hideouts. And so, for the past month, Severus had been forced to report to the madman in what must have, at one time, been a grand ballroom. Now, however, the slick marble floors had been dulled by scattered sand, which collected at the bottom of the moth eaten burgundy velvet drapes. It had entered through the many crevices that lined the walls, which welcomed all the elements. The vaulted ceiling, while once magnificent, was obscured by what the Potion Master hoped was just cobwebs. But the most dreary feature of the entire room was an ostentatious gold chandelier. Where it had once hung in splendor it now resembled a dangling mangled and tarnished metal framework. The dust that rested upon the dilapidated light fixture was thick enough to be noticed from across the hall and cobwebs adorned the ancient relic as well.

All of this was lost on Severus, however, because at the moment of a barrage of spells were flying in all directions, not to mention the hoard of panicking Death Eaters. The decrepit chamber was overrun by scampering and dodging dark wizards, trying to escape the rage of their master. 

Dodging another _Confringo,_ Snape attempted to approach the curse-flinging fool before any major damage was inflicted to his person. Unfortunately, he had been absent to the beginning of this particular meeting, and hadn’t a clue to what the catalyst of this particular explosion had been. But if anyone knew what could calm the Dark Lord, it was Severus. Ever since the fiasco at the Ministry, Voldemort had been desperate to get a hold of Potter. He hoped that if he threw the madman a small bone all the sinister curses might cease and they could move on to just mild hexes. One could onlyhope.

Finally, he was close enough to catch the old crackpot’s attention over the bellowed curses and screams of terror. “My Lord!” Severus barked, more than a little irritated, “I have promising news about the Potter boy.” Snape’s words had immediately achieved their desired effect: Voldemort’s booming voice cut off mid- _Crucio._ And, thankfully, once a few moments had passed, so did the obnoxious shrieks of his peers. The Dark Lord's wrath had finally been tempered.  

“Severus,” the Dark Lord simpered in his nasally tenor while lowering his wand, “What news do you bring me?”

After a respectful bow, Severus replied, “My Lord, I have discovered that the boy is not being kept at Order headquarters this summer. Black’s death undoubtedly makes staying there unpleasant for anyone who had been too…attached to the man.” Upon saying this, the Dark Lord’s eyes lit up with a fanatical blaze. In truth, Snape had known for some time that Harry Potter would not return to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but, as a spy, he was careful to withhold all valuable information until its allotted time. Severus knew the boy would never willingly return to the house which held so many fond memories of his recently deceased godfather. Voldemort might have recognized this if he retained the ability to empathize. But of course the madman could never understand an emotion as potent as grief.

“And where is he instead, Severus?” Voldemort eagerly entreated him. His eyes gleaming an eerie crimson and slit-like nostrils flaring with his excitement.

“I was not directly informed, but I do know they believe Hogwarts to be impenetrable,” Severus expertly suggested. It was true that Snape was unaware of Potter’s exact location, but knew very well that he was not at Hogwarts. However, after an enlightening and, to be honest, frightening conversation with Albus, Severus knew that Harry must be kept safe at all costs, even at the expense of his beloved school. And technically, he hadn’t lied.

“Excellent!” the Dark Lord proclaimed, snapping his fingers for the adjournment of his already scattered court. The lucky few uninjured Death Eaters scampered out of the chamber in a stampede of bodies, while the unfortunate casualties were left to limp or drag themselves to safety. “Lucius, Severus, why don’t you two stay?” It wasn’t a question.

As the last straggler exited hall, the eldest Malfoy and his dark haired companion approached the dais, upon which their master awaited them. Once composed, Lucius and a forever irate Severus approached the Dark Lord’s throne and after bowing, commenced their scheming.

“Lucius, you have a son…and you owe me a favor,” the madman said. Voldemort loved maintaining the illusion that his servants didn’t serve him out of fear alone. Severus—much to his own satisfaction—had never allowed the viper this small victory. Regrettably, Lucius really did owe his master for so promptly breaking him out of Azkaban. “Perhaps your son can prove his worth by assisting us into Hogwarts. Maybe….”

Snape shuddered anxiously for his godson. Despite doing his best to warn the boy of the dangers of following the lunatic, Draco had been adamant about his intentions. Lucius, Severus knew, was most likely responsible for his son’s recklessness, always emphasizing that proper behavior for a Malfoy was Muggle-hating and being the servant of the Dark Lord. If he had been given more say in his godson’s upbringing, Severus would have done his absolute best to stress how prudent it was to be your own master. Furthermore, if the aforementioned Dark Lord was so far off his rocker, Snape would have insured that Draco was far out of Voldemort’s poisonous grasp. Draco’s obsession with following in his father’s footsteps would now undoubtedly bring about the fall of Hogwarts and many unnecessary deaths.

Turning his attention back to the repellent conversation, Snape heard Lucius promise to question his son about any secret passages in and out of Hogwarts that he had managed to uncover during the last five years.

“Wonderful, Lucius, wonderful! Once the Lestranges have finished rounding up the werewolves we can attack. I expect the first week of August to be a realistic date for our conquest!” the Dark Lord declared triumphantly. The Potions Master rolled his eyes, more than ready to leave.

Finally losing what little patience he had left, Snape snapped out a leading excuse, “I have quite a few restorative potions to prepare.” He was barely able to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Oh, yes. You must have them all completed by the date of our attack,” the Dark Lord commanded, as if he believed Severus actually hadn’t realized this necessity yet. Regardless of his presumption, Snape was relieved to be _permitted_ to leave. He could only tolerate the other Death Eaters and Voldemort for so long before his composure was stretched to the breaking point. And his company was not required for the inane plotting he left in his wake. So having now attained permission he swiftly departed the room, with his characteristic billow of robes.  

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

**Back to the Dursley’s…**

Harry was exhausted. Everything either ached, burned, or stung. His skin felt strangely tight, stretched across his face and limbs, despite having lost quite a bit of weight over the past four weeks. He had always been smaller then all his friends at Hogwarts, even Hermione, but now he seemed even tinier—something his uncle had neither failed to notice nor exploit as often as possible.

Ever since the first dinner fiasco, Petunia always laid out a piece—only one, single, lousy piece—of questionable looking bread in his dog bowl. And she always seemed to bring out the nastiest moldy-green slice of the loaf. Harry wondered whether they bought an extra loaf just for him, letting it sit until it was moldy before allowing him any. This injustice forced Harry to become a competent scavenger. Every day while cooking, doing the dishes, or even taking out the trash he was constantly on the lookout for even the smallest morsel of food. Now that he was paying so close attention to their eating habits, he was even more disgusted with the Dursley’s for how much food they wasted…not that he was complaining. Those scraps were the only things sustaining him.

He was currently curled, quite ironically, like a cat in his favorite corner of his doghouse. The single set of clothing Harry had left was still damp from that morning’s wake-up call. From what he could remember there had never been a time since that first morning that he had been completely dry.

In fact, the past couple of nights there had even been rain. Nothing too heavy at first, but there was enough of it that Harry now knew exactly where the leaks in the roof were. And just yesterday it had poured continuously, leaving a half-inch of water on the bottom of his makeshift home. That night he had gotten no sleep at all.

Absentmindedly rubbing his chest, where a peculiar throbbing sensation was emanating, Harry imagined the reaction of the Weasley’s when they came to collect him for the remainder of the holiday. Their expected incredulity and subsequent vengeance was what had been sustaining his sanity this past month.

The list of chores Vernon had given him the first day of his holidays never seemed to end. His energy was waning and thoughts of the Burrow, warm meals, and scalding showers, danced through his mind as he brooded.

It had taken him several days to realize that not only was all his school work gone forever, but his wand, owl, and all the mementos that had remained of his parents, including his invisibility cloak and prized photo album, that had both been callously destroyed. This meant that he no longer had the company of Hedwig and the trusty Holly and Phoenix feather wand he had received five years ago would never perform magic again. Such realizations had left him utterly distraught for days until Vernon had punched him in the nose because he was being a “lazy little bastard.”

Now, as he reminisced over each individual memory, all he felt was a longing to leave Privet Drive and never return. He knew it was a hopeless endeavor of Dumbledore’s to force him and his relatives to get along and so he resolved that next summer he would insist upon staying at the Burrow with Ron. Everyone would be happier with that arrangement, not only he and the Dursley’s, but also Ron, Hermione, and the rest of his adopted red-haired and freckled family.

Harry suddenly sneezed, the force causing his temple to collide with the unforgiving wooden boards of his temporary home. After rearranging himself so as to relieve his newest bruise and other sore extremities, he let his mind relax, using the meditation techniques he’d learned in his failed attempt at Occlumency for sleep. Unfortunately, he was simply too tense to succeed in this undertaking. With a frustrated sigh, Harry gave up and began, once again, to contemplate the horrendous situation he found himself in.

He had been out of contact with the Wizarding World for some time now and found that he longed for a copy of the Daily Prophet. Or, even better, an owl from either Ron or Hermione. His birthday was in a few days and he could only guess as to what the Dursley’s would do with the contents of his friend’s congratulatory parcels.

It was not lost on Harry that this calamitous state of affairs was entirely his fault. All of it began with his attitude following Sirius’s death and the selfish, disagreeable manner in which he had treated his friends on the train ride home. If he had just been more receptive to his two best friends, he might have realized that being alone at the Dursley’s was not the best atmosphere for him in his present temperament. Ironically, he had insisted upon staying at his relative’s in his desperate attempt to be alone.

Unsuccessfully Harry squirmed, even in his exhaustion his body refused to relax; the stress and abuse from the past month’s activities left him perpetually tense. Harry yawned wearily; instead of falling immediately to sleep every night, he’d been cursed with terrible insomnia, most likely due to his constant anxiety and pain. He really did need to get some rest if he wanted any chance of completing his chores. Not that he was particularly concerned about the lawn or the gardens, but Vernon had been getting steadily more and more violent as the summer wore on. There were some nights where Harry was sure that had Vernon kicked or punched him one more time Harry would have died if he hadn’t been taken to a hospital. As it was, he could only suspect that his innate magic was keeping him alive, with his characteristically Gryffindor obstinacy. Despite this, he knew that it would take weeks for his body to completely heal after he had escaped to the Weasley's.

At long last, Harry felt his eyelids begin to droop and his next yawn was impossible to repress. He curled up tightly, in such a way that would maximize any heat his body managed to retain, although tonight his grasp at warmth was futile due to the steady downpour. And with those grim thoughts lingering in the forefront of his mind, Harry fell into a restless sleep. **  
**

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think!!  
> Next chapter will come next Tuesday right on schedule!!  
> I really hope you like it...


	3. Dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I totally forgot to upload this yesterday! Well here you go.   
> PROCEED WITH CAUTION!!!  
> You have been warned.

  
**Chapter Three:** Dirty

            There was absolutely no way he was going to make it up the stairs, at least not standing up. Slowly lowering himself to all fours, Harry listlessly climbed what seemed to be an endless stairway. In reality it probably only had fifteen steps. Upon reaching the landing, he sagged against the wall in an attempt to catch his breath.

For the past few days any exertion had been almost impossible, but today was even worse. Harry had been having trouble breathing, each breath accompanied by an abnormal rasping vibration deep within his chest. Petunia had yelled at him while he had been preparing their lunch because of his incessant coughing. Even more tiresome were the hot and cold flashes he had been experiencing while mowing the lawn. But most irritating were the random flashes of nausea that plagued him at the most inconvenient times, like when he had been preparing the Dursley’s supper. This had made completing Vernon's ridiculous tasks nearly impossible. Despite Harry’s obviously failing health, Vernon had shown no mercy, insisting that Harry continue to work as directed. So here he was, on his last chore of the day and seconds away from collapse.

            After a few more minutes, he had finally recovered from his brutal trip up the stairs. Harry pulled himself to his feet, using the wall as support. As he slowly made his way towards his aunt and uncle’s bedroom, he could distinctly hear blood pumping through his veins. This did nothing to relieve the headache that had been building ever since that morning. Finally reaching the doorway, he entered and surveyed the disarray. Thankfully his only job was to change the sheets, but it would still be difficult to maneuver himself over and around all of their crap.

            Determined, Harry set off across the room, picking his way carefully through the scattered debris. However, when the front door slammed, Harry started in surprise, and stumbled onto the bed. Vernon was home. After righting himself, Harry hurriedly began prying up the dirty bedding, trying desperately not to think about how it had become soiled.

He tried to work quickly; usually he was able to finish before his uncle returned home. On days when this was possible, Harry would be safe in the back garden by the time an irritated and confrontational Vernon stormed into the residence. Today he had not been so lucky, and tried to make up for the time lost on the stairs by rushing through his final task. He quickly discovered this tactic to be flawed, since any hurried movement quickly fatigued him. Extending his arms and bracing himself on the bare mattress, Harry attempted to quickly catch his breath.

The fates were not on Harry’s side, however. At the exact moment Harry was recovering, Vernon charged into the room. The suddenness of the intrusion caused Harry to once again jerk in alarm. Unfortunately, the hasty movements made it seem as if Harry was guiltily removing himself from a relaxed position. Even more disastrous than the unexpected appearance of Uncle Vernon was the expression the man was wearing. His face was contorted into a repulsed sneer of rage.

Immediately Harry knew that he was in trouble. Vernon was going to kill him. Not only had Harry been “a no good, lazy runt,” but he had been caught leaning on his relative’s bed, no doubt “contaminating” it with his “filth.” Resigned to what he knew would transpire, Harry straightened up and stared right back at his uncle. And, as expected, it took only a few seconds for Vernon to find the appropriate, wrathful words.

“BOY, WHAT’S THE MEANING OF THIS! WE LET YOU IN OUR HOME, AND WHAT DO YOU DO? NOTHING!” Vernon thundered, enraged. “You’re such a lazy little freak, can’t even do a few chores before you take a nap. You’re good for nothing, just like your whore of a mother. All you do is laze about, and on my bed no less!”

Harry just stood there with a blank expression. Vernon probably thought he was just a bit dim, but in reality he was trying desperately not to panic. The beating Harry knew was imminent was guaranteed to leave him severely injured. It wasn’t as if his uncle would take him to the hospital for his injuries. As his breath began to hitch and a high pitched whine emanated from his chest, Harry tried not to imagine how pissed off Vernon would be if he was unable to move and therefore incapable of completing his chores.

“BOY! Boy? Are you listening to me?” Vernon barked. His face had been red when he had entered the room, but now it was a dull shade of purple. Suddenly Harry’s space was being invaded. Uncle Vernon had crossed the messy room in a surprisingly short time for a man of such substantial size. Once he had reached Harry, he grabbed him by the back of the neck. At least this time Harry could breathe, but it was still terribly uncomfortable. Yanking Harry around to face him, Vernon hissed, “You ungrateful little waste, I am going to kill you!”

Harry didn’t doubt him, as he was dragged back into the hall and into the smallest bedroom that used to be his refuge. His uncle was muttering all the while about how much Harry would “regret ever being born.” When Vernon shoved him down onto his old mattress, he didn’t even bother trying to catch himself, and simply let his head smack the old mattress carelessly. From his face down position on the bed, Harry could only hear his uncle’s movements behind him, but was too resigned to the beating he knew was coming to care. In some ways this was better than the previous occasions, Harry reasoned, seeing as how he was on a—comparatively—comfy bed. At least it would be impossible for him to get a concussion this time.

Unexpectedly, Harry felt his ankle being grabbed and yanked in the direction of a bed post. Even if he had been so inclined, Harry would have been incapable of resisting. Usually, as long as he cooperated and accepted whatever Vernon wanted to dish out, everything was over sooner. After both his feet had been secured, Vernon yanked Harry’s hands above his head, first binding them together and finally to one of the rungs on the headboard. _Now this is new,_ Harry thought. Vernon had never tried to tie him up before, no matter what the punishment, whether it be punching, kicking, beating, or burning.

He could now hear Vernon removing his belt. But instead of hitting him, Vernon simply laid it down on the bed beside Harry, and began yanking at Harry’s grimy oversized jeans. They had previously been Dudley’s and easily slipped off his hips and down to his calves. Finally Vernon could strike him across his bare thighs, arse, and lower back.

The first stoke landed on the sensitive skin between thigh and buttocks, causing Harry to jerk and tears to well up. Blow two, three, and four hit him right above the knees procuring a quivering motion out of his legs. Harry lost count after several more that stung his back. Closing his eyes, Harry attempted to send himself into a meditative state, just focusing on the impact of each individual hit. He’d found a while ago that he could always come out of punishments much less damaged if he could control himself.

Yet it still didn’t take Harry long to begin crying; thankfully they were hushed tears. However, Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to appreciate his silence. “Scream, boy, or I’ll make you,” huffed his uncle. And Vernon did a commendable job of trying, but Harry bit the inside of his cheeks when he ran out of lip, in the effort not to make a sound.

Nevertheless, Harry did eventually begin to bleed, which seemed to appease his uncle, since he stopped thrashing his nephew. He was almost relieved before he froze as a chilling sound reached him. It was worse than Voldemort’s cackle, Malfoy’s jeering, and Snape’s belittling. It was the rhythmic chink of a zipper being pulled down.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

**Flashback…**

            It was New Year’s Eve back in fourth year. Fred and George had managed to smuggle in several cases of Fire Whiskey and had felt generous enough in their holiday spirit to share it with their youngest brother and his friends. Harry, being under an enormous amount of stress because of the Triwizard Tournament, participated in Gryffindor’s merriment. After drinking for hours with Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean in the common room, the five of them had tripped and stumbled up to the boy’s dormitory with their last bottle of booze, all the while under the scornful watch of Hermione.

Wanting to make this last bottle count, Ron had proposed a game of Wizard’s “Have You Ever,” a game Harry had realized was quite literally magical. By adding a certain spell that insured the uninhibited truth to the spirits, Ron had announced that no matter the query, they would be magically compelled to drink accordingly. Once everyone had agreed to the terms, including Neville, the game began.

It had all started out innocently enough. Neville had begun by saying, “Have you ever cheated on an assignment?” which was of course followed by all five of them drinking. But as they had become more intoxicated the questions had become lewder.

The first had come from Dean, “Have you ever had a hand job from Lavender Brown?” which was promptly followed by only Dean swallowing his shot of Whiskey, while sniggering amusedly at all their envious faces. Ron had quickly followed him up with, “Have you ever had sex with any of the girls at Hogwarts?” which both he and Dean drank too. The rest had watched rather jealously while both Ron and Dean had mercilessly made fun of them and recounted all of their experiences in minute detail.

Neville, who they all knew was bisexual, had come back with, “Have you ever had sex with a guy?” meaning that he got to drink. Surprisingly, however, Seamus had also been forced to drink his shot, despite him obvious resisting.

            Dean stared surprised at his best friend, “Mate, I didn’t know you were bent!” he exclaimed, a bit too loudly because of his drunkenness. This really was a surprising development, since Seamus was quite out spoken when it came to whether or not he liked someone. And he had always said he’d liked girls.

            “Yeah, Seamus, who was it?” Ron asked. The unfairness of the question would only occur to them in the morning, when they remembered the compulsion spell Ron had placed upon the alcohol. But Ron couldn’t be blamed for his forgetfulness or curiosity. None of them could. They were all wasted.

 Seamus, who had already been red, was turning blue from lack of air. He had clamped his jaw shut in an attempt not to have to speak. If he had been sober, he might have thought to run out of the room, or even breathe through his nose. As it was, the need for air eventually forced him to open his mouth. Through the gasps for air the other four clearly heard him say, “My father.”

The complete and utter silence that had followed had been horrible. The revelation immediately subdued the group. Unfortunately for Seamus, their soberness didn’t mean there wouldn’t be questions. Harry had been the one to ask, “When? Before you came to Hogwarts?”

Seamus just nodded, looking down and refusing to make eye contact with any of them. He had gone from sprawled out over some pillows to knees tucked under his chin and his arms wrapped around himself. Not a single one of his freckles could be seen.

“Seamus, mate?” Dean said scooting closer and wrapping an arm around his friend, “How old were you? What happened?”

There was a short pause where Seamus seemed to be attempting to fight the magic again and failed. And so he was forced to begin.

“I was eight years old. It was right after me’ dad found out me’ mum was a witch. He wasn’t too thrilled about that, but you guys already knew that. Um... he… my f-father… dammit! I-it happened the night he left. Actually I think me’ mum thought he had already gone but I guess he had just went to the pub and then decided to come back one more time. I wish he hadn’t. But, um, he came into me’ room that night, and me’ mum had already gone to bed, so she couldn’t have heard. Me’ mum snores like a train, see. And um, anyway me’ dad was drunk, completely out of it, e’ was. He kept telling me I was a freak and a whore just like me’ mum and this was the only way to make it better. He was pulling down me’ shorts and I thought he was gonna give me a beatin’… but after he got me’ pants off he started takin’ off his own. I didn’t know what was going on. Me’ parents hadn’t told me about sex ‘cause I was still so young, ya know, and I hadn’t gotten me’ hands on any of those girlie magazines yet.”

Seamus paused, steeling himself for what they all knew was coming next. “Me’ dad had a tiny cock,” he said, trying to make light of it all and failing, “but to an eight year old, I don’t think it mattered much. It still hurt like a bitch. I thought me’ body was going to split in two. I was crying and me’ dad was getting angrier ’cause I was making too much noise. So he pushed me’ face down into the sheets to muffle me’ howling. It went on a long time and by the end there was blood and cum all over me and the sheets. After he was done, me’ dad didn’t stick around too long. He took the sheets and told me to take a bath. I think he didn’t want me’ mum to know. And she still doesn’t either.”

By this point Seamus was crying and leaning heavily into Dean’s side. The rest of them were dazed by this disturbing news. Harry was trying to reason out why they hadn’t suspected it before. But Seamus was the loudest and cheeriest of the lot of them, and Harry couldn’t understand how he could be so positive after something so obviously horrific had happened to him.

“I’m not bent though. I didn’t want him to do that. It wasn’t me’ fault I didn’t know any better.” Seamus was looking pleadingly at Dean, as if he thought the other boy was about to push him away. “You believe me don’t ya?”

Turning his distressed friend to face him, their faces a bit closer than normal because of the drunkenness, Dean reassured him forcefully, “Gay or straight, you’re still my best mate. Besides, I don’t think you had much of a choice anyway, what with you just being a little kid then, right?”

Looking a little more hopeful, Seamus allowed Dean to help him into bed. After a few moments of muddled silence, the rest of them somberly prepared for sleep. Harry in particular was pensive. He had realized that this must have been the very first time Seamus had ever talked about his last encounter with his father. The Dursleys were cruel, but he didn’t even think they would do something so distressing to him. Those had been Harry’s last thoughts before he had drifted off to sleep.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

This was why Harry was so confused. The Dursleys, or more specifically his uncle, weren’t supposed to be capable of this. Harry had decided that over a year ago, but here were the facts, proving him wrong. Suddenly, Harry wasn’t feeling so complacent about his penance. No one deserved to have this done to them! Feeling a rush of terror-fueled adrenaline Harry started to thrash about, straining all his muscles to escape the snare he had allowed himself to be trapped in.

Vernon was completely silent, but Harry could sense him when he got onto the bed. Increasing his struggling, Harry began to hyperventilate. _This is not happening, it’s NOT!_ were Harry’s only thoughts. But when he felt his uncle’s hand on his bare hip, Harry stopped breathing, going rigid and tensing his butt for all he was worth.

It occurred to him then that this was most likely happening because he had refused to make any noise of distress during the beating. He decided immediately that giving up his dignity would be worth the embarrassment. So Harry began to whimper. But instead of stopping victoriously, Vernon just moved farther onto the bed, until Harry could tell his uncle was kneeling between his legs. Before Harry could do anything to counter this progression, Vernon leaned a forward a bit. This action alerted Harry to an alarming fact that, had Harry not already been petrified, would have rendered him motionless. His uncle was hard, very hard. In addition to that from what Harry could tell his uncle wasn’t small, but of an average length and width.

Losing all rational thought and control, Harry began to struggle haphazardly. He even increased the level of his whimpering to full-blown sniveling, although he didn’t know when he had started to cry again.

The next thing Harry knew, Vernon's hands were spreading his arse cheeks apart. Finally Harry had had enough. This WASN’T going to happen to him, even if he had to beg.

“Uncle Vernon, please stop. Please don’t!” Harry managed to squeak out between his sobs, unaware that his distress had escalated to such heights. But all this earned him was a maniacal chuckle from Vernon.

Then the foreign and incredibly frightening feeling of a large blunt cock head prodding around his entrance caused Harry to once again freeze. His breath left him again as he tensed for the inevitable breach.

But when it finally did come, it was so much worse than Harry had imagined, causing him to give a panicked shriek, his hands grappling for purchase on the pillows. Really all Vernon had done was nudge just the tip of his erect penis into Harry’s tiny hole, but there was such an intense burning that Harry thought he might actually die if his uncle continued.

His entire body gave a jolt and he could feel his anus spasm around the foreign intrusion. Harry couldn’t understand, through the haze of pain, how such a large thing could even begin to fit within such a minuscule orifice. The shuddering, he assumed, was his body’s attempt to accustom itself with the invasion. However, he wasn’t quite sure he wanted his body to get used to this outlandish torture. He wanted the disturbance gone, and the memories deleted.

Harry was about to resume his pleading, but Vernon had swiftly leaned over him, clapping a hand over Harry’s mouth and hissing. “One more noise, boy, and I will make this a hundred times worse.” Although Harry couldn’t imagine anything worse than what had already ensued, he nodded fervently to avoid any more unwanted agony.

But it did get worse, so much worse. At that moment Vernon plunged in all the way to the hilt. If his uncle’s hand hadn’t already been over his lips, a gut wrenching scream of anguish would have undoubtedly exploded from the young wizard. As it was, he couldn’t help the shuddering spasms that shook his entire frame and the immediate blubbering that overtook him. Tears and snot were swiftly dripping down his face, causing Vernon to remove his hand. Harry could vaguely hear himself weeping, but the ringing in his ears disoriented him, making everything vague and hazy. Everything but the pain in his arse.

It really did feel like being torn in two. But what the Irishmen had forgotten to mention was the inconceivable burning sensation and the uncontrollable urge to vomit. Which he did, right onto the pillow. He was being stretched more than his body was most likely meant to yield. The blood from where the skin of his hole had been torn by the sudden intrusion was running down his legs.

And then Vernon began to move. It was unbroken, indescribable pain. Most unfathomable was the relentless burn. The open wounds from the beating were being rubbed raw, and every time Vernon's balls slapped Harry’s buttocks, he thought he could feel the man’s cock all the way in the back of his throat. Every time Vernon pulled out and slammed back in Harry’s face was dragged through his own vomit, which had spread all across the top half of the bed.

By this time, his weeping had progressed to muffled wailing. Harry couldn’t help the escaping noise but tried his best to stifle it by pressing his face into the fouled coverlet.

“…no no no no no no no no…” was Harry’s desperate mantra. It wasn’t clear to him if he was saying no to Vernon or just in denial of the situation itself. Between each irregular breath Harry threw out his whispered objection. For the eternity that it took his uncle to get off, Harry chanted. Even once Vernon finally had sprayed his cum into Harry and pulled out, he continued to intone his barely audible “no no no.”

And once Vernon had redone his trousers and released Harry’s hands and feet, the continued rejections remained, unceasing. After Vernon had left the room and Harry had curled into the smallest shape possible, hugging his knees to his chest and staring blankly at the wall, the no’s continued to stream past his lips. Harry’s mind was oddly blank. He wasn’t contemplating how he’d just lost his virginity to his uncle or how, for the first time in weeks, he was laying on an actual bed. And he definitely wasn’t thinking about how he would have to clean up the entire mess, including himself, within a few hours.

No, Harry Potter’s mind was completely blank, except his refusal to accept reality. But really, who could blame him.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

Two hours later, there was a knock on the door of the smallest bedroom in Number Four Privet Drive. It was Petunia Dursley. She wanted to make sure her nephew took a shower before he went to bed, so as not to sully the sheets with “his kind’s” filth. And Harry, who had only recently come out of his stupor, had no objection to this. He knew he was dirty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T HATE ME PLEASE!  
> Please review!


	4. Alone

 

* * *

 

            He _needed_ to take a shower. The smell of his uncle was overwhelming him. But his head was spinning and everything ached. His aunt had told him to wash up before going to bed and Harry was only too happy to comply. Before he did, he _had_ to get rid of the filthy, blood stained sheets. He decided tossing them would be better for everyone. His relatives wouldn’t want his “filth” all over their belongings, and he really didn’t think Petunia would allow him to leave dried blood, puke, tears, and cum in her house.

            But when he tried to move from his face down position to a sitting one, his body strongly protested. The stabbing pain in his arse had him falling to his knees by the side of the bed rather abruptly. The bedside table nearly nicked his head on his way to the floor.

            Now that he was upright, the uncomfortable sensation of the cooled remnants of pink tinged cum dribbling down the inside of his thighs made Harry nauseas. This time he was able to hold back the vomit by lowering his head to rest against the bed. If anyone had walked in on him then it would have seemed as if he were praying. After gaining control of his stomach, Harry tried to stand. It was rather difficult, since every movement caused intense twinges of pain at the base of his spine.

Finally managing to pull himself up, Harry began to carelessly pull up the sheets. Once he had them strewn together in a messy ball, he methodically donned his old shirt and trousers, leaving his pants where they lay on the floor. His backside was too raw for tight fitting garments to be comfortable. He intended to take the sheets directly to the rubbish bin in the alley, but as soon as he exited the smallest bedroom in Number Four Privet Drive he came across a major dilemma.

            Vernon was still awake and he was between Harry and the front door. Harry couldn’t see him yet, but the distinctive oafish guffawing could be heard from the top of the stairs. _Wonderful! Just wonderful,_ Harry thought sardonically. He knew any confrontation with his uncle would result in him cowering in a corner. At the moment, he didn’t think he could cope with the added humiliation. To make matters infinitely worse, Dudley’s loutish sniggering could be heard from the sitting room as well. Harry could only imagine what was so amusing and hoped it was simply late night television.

            Gathering as much courage and stealth as he could muster, Harry began his steady descent down the stairs. He had to take his time or exhaustion would overtake him and he’d have to stop and rest, only prolonging his time out in the open. Despite his precaution, by the time he had reached the bottom step, Harry was out of breath. It frustrated him that something as simple as a flight of stairs could completely drain him, but now he was much closer to his goal. All he had to do was sneak past the entrance of the sitting room and out the front door. Much easier said than done!

            After stealing a glance into said room and finding his cousin and uncle satisfactorily distracted, Harry crept past and then out the front door, sighing in relief once it clicked shut behind him. Without the threat of his uncle spurring him on, Harry meandered his way into the alley and towards his goal: the rubbish bin.

            The fresh air stole across his feverish skin, cooling and calming him. But, with this calm came a clarity of mind that did nothing for his composure. Now that his concentration was revitalized, it immediately went to work replaying all the horrifying events of the past few hours.

            Harry’s blood pressure began to rise as the memories he had been blocking came crashing back over him. As the panic set in, he slumped into the garbage can, trembling violently, and slid to the ground. Cursing his subconscious for its blatant betrayal, Harry dropped his forehead to his forearm, which was propped up on his knees. He needed to get under control and stop the irrational tremulous quaking, especially as his uncle was still inside. Taking deep breaths, Harry gave up his internal battle for control, letting his attention wander where it wished.

            Suddenly there was a loud banging noise that indicated a slamming door, mercifully jolting him out of his inner turmoil. He hoped fervently that it was the neighbours, but knew instinctively it was from Number Four because of its proximity. In response, he curled in on himself and froze, hoping to make himself invisible to whoever had exited the residence.

            To his complete horror it was both Vernon and Dudley. Even worse was the subject of their conversation: him. But most alarming was their approaching footsteps. Scrambling to his feet and quickly tossing the sheets into the dumpster, Harry stood with his back against the wall. He had a fantasy of his invisibility cloak poofing up out of nowhere and hiding him from view. Unfortunately, he would never wear his father’s cloak again.

            Luck, as usual, was against him. And when his relatives rounded the corner, Harry was in plain sight.

            “Look, there’s little Potter. I wonder if he’d like to go for a drive with us,” Dudley said upon noticing Harry cowering in the shadows. The underage wizard thought it rather strange that his cousin didn’t insult him further. Usually his relatives prided themselves on their inventive new ways of affronting him and his parentage.

            “We’ll have to toss him in the boot so that he doesn’t sully the back seat,” Vernon glared. Harry was confused _. A drive?_ He had thought they had come out to beat him or… well, what Vernon had done to him earlier. He hadn’t been anticipating them suggesting a drive, and truthfully it unnerved him. It was obvious that the two bumbling animals that passed as his relations were up to something. This alone made him anxious, but with the added fear and shame that being in Vernon's mere vicinity produced, it made him all but panicky. The only thing he could console himself with was that Vernon, it appeared, had kept the events of only a few hours ago to himself. Dudley’s incessant taunting could have very possibly been too much for him to handle, had the boy been aware of Harry’s indignity.

            As the two bullies approached him, he tensed, but managed to keep himself from retaliating when they grabbed him by his arms and forcefully led him out of the alley. Their destination: Vernon's aging sedan. The confined dark space of the trunk reminded him of his old cupboard under the stairs, but he let himself be picked up and bodily stuffed into the cramped compartment. Ducking his head as Vernon slammed the boot closed, Harry prepared himself for a bumpy ride.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            Harry was sure he had a concussion. By his estimation, which was questionable at best, they had been driving for over an hour. To make everything even more unpleasant, not a minute went by that was bump-free, causing Harry’s head to repeatedly slam into the back of the boot. Sleep, of course, was impossible.

            Harry had given up wondering where he was being taken, nor did he want to know what would happen to him once they arrived. There was no doubt in his mind that the father and son duo had something up their sleeves. His only hope was the reasonable assumption that Vernon and Dudley Dursley were too dimwitted to put any truly conniving plot into action.

            Bracing himself for another violent jolt, Harry tried to lose himself in his thoughts. Ever since the first day of the holidays, he had had daydreams of his friends coming to save him from this mess he was in. Anyone would do. He wouldn’t even be upset to see Snape at this point. Anything to get him away from this place; forever.

            Suddenly, Harry noticed a strange tinkling echo. It seemed to be coming from all around him, and at first he thought it was the beginning of his relative’s scheme. Perhaps they intended to torture him into insanity, but Harry quickly dismissed this idea when he realised one had to be clever to successfully torture someone.

            Rain! That’s what it was. Not that this improved Harry’s mood at all; he was already chilly due to the lack of proper clothes and riding in the boot of an ancient car. Rain wouldn’t make it any better. He had the most rotten luck.

            He was so disoriented and drained that he didn’t realise the car had been slowing down until the ignition was switched off. The barely noticeable trimmers that rocked the car, suddenly stopped. They had reached their destination. Foreboding, that Harry had done his best to keep at bay, now engulfed him.

For the first time Harry began asking himself the questions he had been putting off. Why he was being taken for a midnight outing? What could the Dursley’s gain from getting him away from Privet Drive? The sudden idea that they were in league with Voldemort overcame him, initially instilling panic. But he quickly reassured himself. His relatives wanted nothing to do with “freaks” like him; they wouldn’t even consider it, even to conspire against him. Yes, he was safe, at least from that threat.

            Before Harry would get any farther with his inner inquisition, the trunk was thrown open. Looking up Harry could see two silhouetted forms hovering over him. Though he couldn’t see their faces, Harry imagined they both bore nasty grins. And together the duo hauled him out of the boot and plopped him callously onto the damp ground.

            He was forced to sit, putting unwanted pressure on his abused buttocks, since his legs were still completely numb from the extended time in the cramped space. But he looked up, purposely ignoring his evil relatives, and surveyed his surroundings. They were in a deserted alley, but Harry could see lights around the corner. It was obvious that they weren’t in London; it was too quiet.

            “Dad, let’s go, I want to go home. I’m hungry!” That was Dudley. Even in the mist of one of their elaborate schemes, his cousin couldn’t go too long without stuffing his face.

            “We’ll stop in Croydon on the way back for some food, but first I want to have one last word with that thing,” His uncle spit the last word, as if he was no better than dog shit. Harry knew that in Vernon's eyes, that’s exactly what he was.

            “Boy, look here! I’m going to leave you here, and if I ever see you again… well it’ll be much worse than this,” Vernon jeered at him. “Don’t you dare call either; I want nothing to do with you _freaks_ anymore!”

            Harry just stared up at them. This wasn’t what he had been expecting and he wasn’t sure what to think. Wasn’t this what he had wanted, to be away from the Dursley’s and never ever have to see them again? And now it seemed he was getting what he had wished for… But in his daydreams there had always been somewhere for him to go, some place for him to stay, or at least someone who cared. Suddenly he was nervous.

            “W-wait!” Harry entreated. “Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do? You can’t just leave me here!” He was suddenly furious. Where was Dumbledore now? Where was the almighty headmaster when Vernon had violated him? This wasn’t supposed to happen to him.

            But Vernon just laughed. _Laughed!_ Then he bent down, so as to make eye contact with his nephew. Dudley was already in the car, out of the cool showers, most likely impatient for his next meal. Now all alone with his uncle, Harry was understandably petrified by their proximity.

            “Do you think I care what happens to the likes of you? Go wherever you want, as long as it’s away. And as for what you should do,” At this Vernon leered, a wicked expression gracing his visage, “you could be a whore, just like your mother. It’s just too bad you’re a lousy fuck.”

            Harry shrank away, cowering into the ground, despite it making his clothes soggy, as if it would protect him from his reality. He wanted to defend his mother, but he couldn’t even protect himself. Violent tremors racked his petite frame and he knew he was pitiful. Such a pathetic wizard, like himself, deserved all the agony he had received.

            Vernon, looking smugger than Harry had ever seen him, righted himself and, with little ado, made his way back over to the car, leaving Harry abandoned as he drove away.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

**Far away…**

            “Fuck!”

            A jar of his most cherished potions ingredient smashed to the cold stone floor of his laboratory. He had knocked it over when a sudden rapping had sounded at the door, breaking the silence and his concentration.

            Now he would have to buy more Asphodels! Cursing his luck, Severus moved towards the door to discover who had startled him out of the most expensive and rare ingredient in Britain. This was exactly why he had the Dark Lord instruct his imbecile Death Eaters to _never_ interrupt him. Even the Dark Lord didn’t have enough resources to obtain good quality Asphodel. And with the impending confrontation Severus saw a great need for it, since it was the main ingredient to the most powerful restorative potion known to wizard-kind.

            Wrenching open the door with enough ferocity to shake the foundations of any residence not kept standing by magic, Severus glared down at the culprit of his ever increasing foul temper. The white-blond hair was enough to further irritate the Potions Master and he promptly whirled around, stomping back over to his work station in a swirl of black robes. He could hear the aristocrat following him farther into his lair, evidently undaunted by the wrath of Severus Snape.

            Completely ignoring his guest, Severus set about scouring the table top of all the squandered, volatile element and banishing any remaining scraps he found. The closest capable dealer of this invaluable component was in Bromley! This would not have been such an inconvenience if they had still been located in Wiltshire, at Malfoy Manor. But about a month ago Voldemort had spontaneously picked up headquarters and relocated in the north. They were currently based in Aberdeen. Incensed, he recklessly marched over to the sink in a flurry of heavy dark robes, heedless of the other preserved materials around the room.

            “Severus, the Dark Lord wants to know if everything will be prepared for the upcoming fray,” said Lucius Malfoy, completely at ease despite his precarious position. The man was leaning nonchalantly against the far counter and wasn’t even regarding Severus as he spoke, instead scrutinizing his flawless manicure.

            Snape rolled his eyes. If there was any one of the Death Eaters that should be kissing his arse it was Lucius. After the failure at the ministry, Voldemort had been so enraged he had planned on _Avada Kedavra_ -ing Narcissa Malfoy as Lucius’s punishment. Severus had done the man a serious favor by hiding his wife, risking his life for not the first time. As it was, the Dark Lord only tortured the blond man a few days instead of murdering his wife. But his old friend was nothing if not proud and refused to acknowledge his dwindling status, unless in the presence of the Dark Lord himself, to whom he groveled shamelessly.

            Shaking his head in exasperation, Severus replied in an aggravated tone, “Of _course_ , Lucius. When was the last time any of _my_ potions were not prepared in a timely fashion?” He said this to mock and perhaps humble the man, but knew his attempt to be futile when the only response was a toss of sleek blond hair and an annoyed glower.

            Before Snape had joined Voldemort’s ranks, Malfoy had been the Lord’s Potion’s Master. This was one of the many reasons Severus had been recruited; Lucius had been an unreliable and inconsistent potion brewer.

            “No need to be childish, Severus. I was sent to assess your progress by the Dark Lord himself. You cannot blame me for being obedient,” Lucius asserted pompously.

            As a matter of fact, Severus had plenty of pent up frustration to spew at Malfoy about blindly worshipping a depraved madman. This, however, was not the time for him to preach blasphemy, especially since Lucius was so desperate for a way back into the Dark Lord’s good graces. So instead, he settled for simply raging at the man in his usual manner.

            “Well your so called _obedience_ just cost the Dark Lord a great fortune. I was under the impression he had instructed you all not to bother me.” At this Lucius paled considerably, which was an impressive feat for his fair complexion. “My stock of Asphodel was completely decimated because of your harebrained incursion. Even you, at height of your reign, could not have afforded to replace this ingredient. As it is the Dark Lord cannot even dream of replenishing it. Now I won’t have enough invigorating potions for after the battle! _Do you know what this means?_ ”

            Looking up after his vehement oration, Severus was pleased to note that Lucius looked a good deal meeker than he had upon entering the Potion Master’s domain. With a minute shake of his head, Lucius conveyed his ignorance of the situation he had brought down on himself.

“In order not to antagonize the Dark Lord, we are going to have to go on a raid to replace the ruined ingredient! And to make matters infinitely worse, the closest adequate vendor is in Bromley, in a shop I have only ever been to once. We will have to accomplish this ourselves, since no others are trustworthy enough to keep this from the Dark Lord. _And_ it will have to be tonight!” Severus sneered, starting to get worked up again.

            Lucius now seemed disgruntled, but it couldn’t compete with Snape’s persistently irate air.

            “When shall we leave then?” the senior Malfoy inquired, yielding quickly, a consequence of his low status, to Severus’s demands.

            “I have to finish disinfecting the chamber, so that Asphodel residue doesn’t ruin my equipment,” he snapped, giving Lucius the privilege of his signature glare. “Come back in an hour and I’ll be prepared to leave.”

            Giving a curt nod, Lucius strode from the room. And Severus was left to clean up the mess.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

**Back in the alleyway…**

            He didn’t want to move. If he did that meant all of this was real. It meant that he really had been abandoned by his only remaining family. Completely alone, that’s what he was.

            His uncle had driven away a while ago. Harry was beyond keeping track of time. His legs and arse were numb from sitting so long and the hot and cold flashes had gotten more intense once the rain had begun pouring in earnest. Currently he was sporting full body goose pimples under his sopping garments. It was windy and because of the downpour, no longer warm.

            During the time since the Dursley’s car had roared away, he had remained in the same spot that he’d been dumped. He had nowhere to go, so he saw no reason to relocate. Harry had contemplated ways of getting to the Burrow or even just getting a message to someone that he needed help. The wand he had bought from Ollivander’s all those years ago was useless now that Vernon had burned all his belongings. Not that he could have used it anyway; he was still under aged.

 _If only I had my broom!_ Had been Harry’s second thought, but that was gone now too. His only other options were muggle post or walking. Neither of these options were practical though. He’d never used muggle post before, but from hearing his uncle complain about the travesty that was the British Postal service, he didn’t think that option would pan out. Walking, he knew, would also be an impractical solution. He had no idea where he was, nor did he know in what direction the Weasley residence was in. Not to mention his extreme lethargy and failing health.

            Harry had simply huddled into the wall of the alley, trying to be invisible and keep out the chilly rain all at once. Unfortunately, he was largely unsuccessful.

            Thankfully, he had been discarded in what appeared to be in an abandoned part of the town. He hadn’t seen a soul yet and the silence was so complete his ears felt as if they were ringing with it.

            So when two identical ‘pops’ sounded just moments apart, Harry was understandably startled.


	5. Umbrellas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had to rewrite parts of this chapter… but now there will be a back story, so I consider it a success. Watch out for whiplash… you’ll know what I mean. Also I think this is the last chapter for a while that will be under four thousand words.

  
**Chapter Five:** Umbrellas

 

* * *

 

            By the time Lucius returned, the Potions Master had been waiting over thirty minutes. It no longer infuriated Severus when the man arrived _fashionably_ late to everything, but it did leave him feeling older than his measly thirty-six years.

            With a curt nod in greeting, he gave his friend the coordinates of the shop in Bromley and prepared to depart. Both men were clad in standard black Death Eater robes and the signature grotesque white masks. Lucius apparated away, with Snape following less than a second later with a turn of his heal and a billow of robes.

            Once the unpleasant constricting sensation of apparition had left him, Severus found himself in a gloomy abandoned lane between two mundane buildings. There were piles of trash, large smelly skips, and scattered cardboard boxes lining the walls. From what he could tell they were alone, so he began explaining the uncomplicated strategy to his companion, who jerked around at the sound of his name.

            “Lucius, the entrance is right over there,” Severus informed him, pointing to a large expanse of empty brick. “Wait out here and ensure that no one enters before I return. This shouldn’t take too long.” He had decided Lucius should wait outside so as not to encourage any unneeded thieving. Severus didn’t approve of random raids for excessive materials, but he thought his life more valuable than Voldemort’s idiosyncrasies and always complied. This time, however, he could make sure nothing but what was essential would be taken from the shop.

            Quickly moving towards the bricks that he knew would grant him entry, Severus pulled out his wand. Tapping the ones he knew would reveal the doorway, the Potions Master slipped into the deserted apothecary.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            Harry’s head swung up with such force that it collided with the wall behind him. He watched the man right himself just as the intruder whirled around to look in his direction, when he heard the smack of flesh against brick. Mercifully, Harry was huddled in the darkest shadowy corner of the passage. Nevertheless, panic filled him as he took in the telling black robes and colourless mask that glowed in the moonlight. Thanks to his startled reaction, this Death Eater knew there was something or someone else in the alleyway. If possible Harry’s heart started hammering even faster. _Shit._ He was completely defenseless: no wand, broom, or energy left for flight. The only thing he could do was double in on himself, once again attempting invisibility.

            That was when the second _pop_ sounded. But Harry just hugged himself tighter, wishing they would both go away. He heard them whispering together and imagined what would befall him now that Voldemort knew of his whereabouts. But being incapable of even standing up, he could only prepare himself for the inevitable assault. However, a few moments passed with no altercation, so Harry timidly peaked out from behind his knees. The more formidable man, in both height and build, was tapping bricks with his wand while the shorter slimmer man, who had heard Harry, watched disinterestedly.

            Sudden hope filled the helpless boy. Maybe the Death Eater hadn’t heard him at all. Perhaps they were too busy to bother checking out what the mysterious noise had been if they were on an important mission. 

            His hopes were dashed, however, when only the larger of the two villains, entered the building, leaving the smaller one alone in the alley. Almost immediately after the wall had closed, the first Death Eater went to work.

            “Lumos,” was the murmured drawl of the unidentifiable man still in the alley. The voice was strangely familiar and it sent chills up Harry’s spine. “I know you’re hiding back there. No muggle can escape from me.” The word muggle was spit in the most disparaging way that Harry was only slightly comforted when he realized that he could pass for one.

            He did look adequately changed…his hair was almost past his shoulder. His fringe covered his eyes and hid his scar. Most altered, however, was his weight. Since arriving at the Dursley’s, Harry had lost at least two stone from the constant manual labor and imaginary diet. The body that he usually maintained was hardly anything more than skin and bone. Dudley’s old clothes hung off him with even more vengeance than usual. Harry was confident that this faceless Death Eater would not recognize him. But that didn’t mean he was out of danger.

            When the light from the _Lumos_ struck him, Harry was forced to lower his face so as not to be blinded. Having no way to defend himself all he could do was cower farther into bricks, which did nothing to offer him protection. It had finally stopped pouring and was only a light drizzle, but his visibility was still terribly distorted, making him practically blind without his glasses. He could only hope the same was true for the masked man.

Before he could react to the proximity of his opposition, Harry found himself being dragged up by his shirt. A firm hand was gripping his front collar, hauling him away from what little protection the wall had offered him. He was too weak to resist and quickly found himself hauled up to his knees.

            “What do we have here? Look here, boy,” he flinched at the familiar nickname, and kept his eyes closed as he tilted his head, knowing that his eyes were bound to give him away. “Well aren’t you pretty…” came the aristocratic voice that Harry was suddenly able to place.

            Even as his face heated from the embarrassing comment, Harry’s mind was racing. _He’s supposed to be in Azkaban. Dumbledore told me he was going to Azkaban! Shit! He’s going to recognize me…_ He quickly ducked his head again hoping to delay the inevitable. Lucius Malfoy was the last person he wanted to see. Voldemort would have been preferable; at least the madman would have killed him immediately. Malfoy would surely want revenge for his humiliation at the Ministry. Suddenly he couldn’t control himself and violent tremors consumed him. There was also a pathetic whimpering emanating from his chest.

            “Oh my! Could this be my lucky day, an abandoned little rent boy? What are you doing here, all alone, without anyone to defend you?” Lucius mocked, a malicious grin transforming his once handsome face to a crazed phantom of a man’s. Harry struggled desperately, despite his fatigue. But his attempts at escape seemed not to bother his captor, who didn’t realise his prisoner was struggling at all. “You remind me of someone, you know. A terribly little pest who needs to learn his place. And now I can humiliate him as he has me…”

            He shivered. Malfoy’s short stint in Azkaban seemed to have tipped him over the edge. Now the once prominent aristocrat was insane. Inconceivably, Harry felt guilt welling up from within him. _I made him this way._ He started to shake again, but this time sniveling accompanied the involuntary convulsions. Whatever Lucius did to him was deserved.

            Leaving his introspection behind, Harry became aware of being dragged to his feet, at which point Malfoy let go of him. In an attempt to stay erect he slumped back, leaning on the wall. Everything was hazy and colours were blurring together. But through the distortion, Harry could make out the shadowy black robes of his assailant. He could hear Malfoy taunting him with his bad fortune, the man was telling him what was going to be done to him.

            “I’m going to make you my bitch, boy. But I promise you’ll enjoy it,” he heard the words but couldn’t react because he was too weak to move, his limp body just resting lazily against the bricks. All he could do was watch as Lucius drew his wand and cast “ _Depulso,_ ” banishing his trousers. When the Death Eater saw that Harry wore no pants, he began to emit a crazed cackling, eerily reminiscent of Voldemort’s laughter.

            Faster than Harry could register with his impaired senses, Lucius had flipped him around so that his forehead rested against the rough material of the wall. He could dimly hear the man behind him undoing his robes and murmuring to himself how much of a whore Harry was.

            “Such an obedient little whore, and look you’ve been busy!” Malfoy simpered upon seeing the dried blood that undoubtedly graced Harry’s thighs. With a whispered “ _Nox,_ ” he felt his ass being spread.

            It all seemed like a dream. Colours were blending together and he felt weightless. Wherever he made contact with anything his skin felt hypersensitive. But the most confounding was the very real sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t this same nightmare just happened to him not hours ago? Therefore, Harry was forced to conclude, with his failing consciousness, that this must just be a hallucination. Nothing this horrific happened to anyone, even him: the epitome of bad luck.

            But it all felt real: the excruciating pain of being suddenly penetrated and the stomach-churning awareness of a cock plunging in and out of his already raw channel, nausea so intense from the agony that he retched bile that dribbled down his front. It was all so familiar and terrifying. He didn’t even realise he was sobbing until the snot and tears made it hard to breathe. His world began to dim as his torment became more intense.

            But, thankfully, his world faded to black and all the unpleasantness dwindled away to the sweet bliss of unconsciousness.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            _Excellent!_

Severus had just pocketed five jars of the most expensive potion ingredient in all of Europe. He figured it would last him at least fifty years. Satisfied with his find, he began making his way back to the entrance of the deserted apothecary. It had really been a much simpler raid than he had expected. If he had owned a potions shop he would have kept all the really valuable ingredients under lock and key. But the owner had all the valuables thrown in with the rest. This had made his search as simple as a whispered _Accio Asphodel._

It occurred to Severus that he could just be insanely paranoid, but reassured himself with the thought that his constant paranoia had kept him alive for the past sixteen years.

Maneuvering himself through the shelves and counters full of assorted fresh ingredients, Snape began planning his schedule for the next day. He had completed all the pre-battle remedies and could afford a day off before beginning any of the restorative or concentration draughts that the Dark Lord demanded each month. It was past time for a shower; Severus hated it when his hair got this greasy. And it had been ages since he’d been able to relax and just read a book. He missed the days back before the Dark Lord had returned when he actually had free time.

Finally reaching the exit, Snape pushed through the doors into the dark alley. A spike of fear stole through the Potions Master when he saw no sign of Lucius. Fortunately, almost immediately he heard ragged breathing farther down the lane. Quickly casting a “ _Lumos,”_ Snape hurried over in the direction of the noise, assuming the worst.

            “Lucius what’s happened?” he inquired. Despite his almost constant irritation, the sardonic Potions Master did still care about his old friend’s welfare. “Have you been injured?” But upon further inspection his companion only seemed to be out of breath and a bit sweaty.

            “It’s fine Severus. A homeless muggle just came wondering down the alleyway and I simply chased it out. However, I’m not as young as I once was and I am now quite fatigued,” Lucius panted out between gasping breaths.

            After Malfoy had recovered a bit more, Severus apparated them both away.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            “Hermione! Thank Merlin you’re here!” an exuberant Ron cried. “There’s going to be a battle!”

            “Yes, Ron. You mentioned that in your letter,” Hermione replied, trying her hardest to keep her patience. Sometimes her freckle-faced friend could be beyond dense.

            “I know, but I couldn’t tell you everything in the note, the owl could have been intercepted and Professor Dumbledore swore us all to secrecy!” The rambling redheaded teen was turning scarlet due to lack of air. “It’s going to be at Hogwarts! Can you believe it? Apparently, Snape, that bloody bastard, told You-Know-Who that Harry was staying there over the summer. And now the Death Eaters are planning to attack the school in a few days…”

            Hermione let her old friend prattle on to his heart’s content. She dusted the soot off her robes as Ron led her up to his bedroom. Earlier that day she had received an owl from Ron, informing her about an impending skirmish. She didn’t know whether it was her Gryffindor bravery or loyalty that had prompted her to abandon her parents in Prague. But she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something positively dreadful was going to happen. So not half an hour after rereading the aforementioned letter, she had stepped through the floo into the Weasley’s modest kitchen. Now here she was being talked at by an overly excitable friend, who could prattle on and on about how excited he was for hours if given the chance. But she was ready for answers.

            “Ron!” she demanded, but after receiving no recognition, yelled, “RON!”

            “Oh sorry Hermione, I’m just so excited,” mumbled an abashed Ronald Weasley.

            “I gathered,” Hermione said dryly. “I wanted to know what the Order plans to do and if they expect us to stay behind the scenes.”

            “Mum isn’t letting Ginny and I into the meetings, but Fred and George have been in them since they’re both seventeen now. They told me that mum and dad don’t want anyone under seventeen to fight, even though they know they’re going to be severely outnumbered. “

            As they reached the landing and entered Ron’s bright orange, Chudley Cannon themed room, Hermione asked, “Have you heard from Harry? Do you know when he’s coming over?”

            At this question Ron’s face darkened and scrunched up in frustration. “No, I haven’t actually. In fact I sent him an owl inviting him to come over a couple weeks early, but the owl was returned and the letter was unopened. Think the Dursley’s have locked up Hedwig again?” he said, with obvious annoyance with his best friend’s despicable relatives.

            “Did you tell anyone? I’ve been saying for years that the Dursley’s are too prejudiced to care for Harry! They’re simply idiotic, with their silly preconceptions,” Hermione ranted, already exasperated with the topic.

            “Yes! I asked Dumbledore if Harry could come over before his birthday, but the crazy old loon wouldn’t hear of it. He kept going on about blood protection and character building,” the redhead fumed. “But, evidently it’s the safest place for him right now. I overheard Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster talking about all the wards they put on Harry’s relative’s house after the night at the Ministry. No one who bears the Dark Mark can enter the house and Dumbledore’s Secret Keeper, so at least You-Know-Who can’t get to him.”

            Hermione had been about to give a scathing reply all about the obvious threat Harry was to himself (due to current events), when they were interrupted by twin pops of apparition.

            “Oh look!”

            “It’s ickle Ronni-kins—”

            “And his little girlfriend!” The twin’s speech was enough to confuse anyone. And as Ron swelled with outrage at his age old nickname, Hermione surveyed the pair of matching Weasley’s. The last time she’d seen them, they’d been shooting across the Hogwarts grounds toward freedom from Umbridge. She wondered how their business was going now that the war seemed to have started. But what interested her more were the boys themselves. They had both grown a couple of inches over the past few months and filled out nicely to boot. They were both wearing matching dragon hide boots and formfitting navy robes. Hermione had to admit she was more than a little bit attracted to them. It was true that she had had a terrible crush on Ronald for the past couple of years, but his average intelligence and steadfast immaturity were the reasons she’d never tried to further a relationship. Not to mention her penchant for redheads. Fred and George were a perfect combination of intellect, comedy, and good looks. Plus, there were two of them.

            “See something—”

            “You like?” the twins asked together, both grinning smugly. It was obvious that they were aware of their effect on her. Whereas, Ron simply looked a bit lost. Yes, the twins were a better choice for her.

            She just grinned back at them and got right down to business. “Ron and I want to participate in the battle at Hogwarts. Is there any way you can help us?”

            The twin she suspected to be George glared down at her sternly. “Now that would be terribly irresponsible of us! How could we possibly let our under-aged brother and his friends onto a dangerous battlefield?”

            “I agree with you George, it would make us terribly careless big brothers if we were to leave a bright pink umbrella portkey that happened to be connected to Hogwarts lying about. What would mother say?” And with that, the pair apparated away in a purple puff of smoke.

            “Those rat bastards! They know we could help!” Ron raged as the smoke began to disperse.

            “Oh shut _up_ Ron! They _are_ helping us, you twit. Look, a _bright pink umbrella_ ,” Hermione said, pointing to the place where they twins had previously been standing. There was indeed a neon umbrella, precariously balanced and standing upright, in Fred and Georges place.

            “Oh, well, right then… they didn’t happen to mention when it would be leaving?” Ron asked, ashamedly as he bent over to retrieve Fred and George’s gift.

            “For the love of Merlin, Ronald, you told me yourself that the battle wouldn’t be for a few days! I think it’s logical to assume the umbrella will leave right before the battle starts. The rush of Order members, in and out of the Burrow, should be adequate warning,” Hermione snapped, finally losing her patients with the dullest Weasley. At this point she would have even preferred Percy.


	6. Dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY I remembered to post on time!!  
> I hope you guys like it... its a bit longer than usual

  
**Chapter Six:** Dreaming

 

* * *

 

            He didn’t think he’d ever felt such extraordinary pain in his life, but he couldn’t be sure because he couldn’t remember anything other than waking up a few minutes ago. At first he’d just laid there, staring up at a wide expanse of grey. No thoughts crossed his mind because, after all, what could someone without any memories think about?

Eventually he realised that the desolate plane above him was raining. It wasn’t long after this realisation that he remembered that this was called a sky, and that the gloom meant that there were heavy gray clouds. It took very little time to discover that he disliked the sensation of water hitting his face. That was when he’d tried to move for the first time. And how he regretted it!

            His skin seemed to be stuck to the surface he was laying on, which he discovered to be completely solid when the back of his head smacked it with a resounding _CRACK_. This only led to more agony, so he remained still for a while longer.

            After some time had passed—there was no way to know exactly how much—he slowly turned his head and was met with the sight of a brick wall. Turning gradually to look in the opposite direction, he found an identical structure looming over him.

            Deliberately this time, he lifted his head off the ground and his bare shoulders and torso followed. Every inch he rose sent another twinge of discomfort zinging across his back, and once he was completely upright, an impossible throbbing enveloped his posterior. 

            But now he could at least see his surroundings. There was rubbish everywhere, unsurprising since the skips were overflowing with it. Perpendicular to the first two walls he noticed a there was a third that was identical to the others. Opposite the dead end, however, was an overwhelming sight. There seemed to be a world outside this little alley.

            Every few seconds someone would walk quickly by. Not once did anyone ever glance into the alleyway. But what was most concerning to him were the comfy looking jumpers and trousers they all seemed to be sporting. It was this that alerted him to his nakedness, and, subsequently, the intense chill in the air evoking almost unperceivable shivers.

Glancing down at his exposed body, he noticed dark purple marks littering his pale skin and goose pimples layered on top of the bruises. However, what stood out to him most was the concave stomach and sharp protruding ribs.

            Soon the intense shivers became too much. He had to get out of this alley, but before he could do that he needed clothes. Nudity, he decided, equaled vulnerability. 

            He shifted his weight, ignoring the soreness in his arse, and leaned against one of the towering brick walls. Using it as a crutch, he was able to heft himself into a crouch with his left shoulder braced against the rough surface. At first his legs shook with disuse and he was forced to pause and wait for them to adjust to his meager weight. After gaining confidence that his shaky limbs could support him, he hauled his body upright and propped himself up against the damp wall. Once vertical, he sighed in relief.  Unfortunately, this only resulted in a brutal coughing fit that left his esophagus so sore, it felt as though it was bleeding.

            Rubbing his abused throat, he pushed off the wall in an attempt to walk, but only managed to stumble a few dizzying feet before falling heavily against one of the several dingy yellow skips that dotted the alley. Holding tightly to the lip of the bin, he rested his head against the sticky surface, indifferent to the grime.

As he rested, he peered into the container. Maybe he could scavenge some clothes or at least a blanket. Once his vision cleared, he began rooting through the garbage, hoping to find something dry to cover himself with. After digging through the top layers of soggy debris, he found a mostly dry pillow sham and matching sheets. Both were heavily stained and he tried hard not to think about what could have caused the stark discolourations, but since they had been kept hidden from the drizzle, he decided to keep them. A soiled blanket was better than no blanket.

            Moving as quickly as he dared so as to keep his spoils protected from the downpour, he maneuvered his way under the extruding rim of his skip. It was the only section of pavement in the alley not affected by the rain. Throwing down the sham in a sad imitation of a mattress, he arranged himself comfortably—as was possible in his situation—into a ball, almost completely covered by his blessed layers of blankets.

            Despite only recently waking, he quickly fell into a light sleep.

He dreamed of a castle with moving stairs and hidden rooms. He saw a bushy chestnut haired girl and a tall freckled boy with ginger hair. A family with warm hugs and friendly smiles passed behind his eyes and he couldn’t help but think that they would have loved him. But then the lovely dream turned into a nightmare and he was suddenly surrounded flashes of green light and horrible screams. There was red hair in a pool of blood, a boy slumping lifelessly to the ground of a grave yard, and a dulled eyed man falling through a veil. Most disturbing of all was, the small teen that stood by and watched it all happen. He had shaggy black hair while cheap wire rimmed glasses covered his bright green eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. The mysterious boy was made to witness the horrors of death and suffering.

            Then his dream changed one last time. The same strange boy who had so stubbornly refused to cry, was in a small bedroom. He was lying on a bed, just as naked as the dreamer, but this boy had blood dripping down his thighs and sniffles could be heard from where his face was pressed into the sullied pillow. Only something truly wicked could have caused such an obstinate youth to weep so fervently.  And when a knock came at the door, the crying boy flipped over. The last thing he noticed before he woke up was a vivid lightning bolt shaped scar on the boy’s forehead.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            “Severus, my dear boy, I’m so glad you could come and visit me on such short notice,” Dumbledore said, practically bouncing in his chair. “Please, please, do sit down! Lemon Drop?”

            Rolling his eyes, the Potions Master simply shook his head, lank hair barely swishing over his shoulder, and stiffly seated himself in the most uncomfortable of the Headmaster’s extravagant armchairs.

“I wasn’t aware that this ‘meeting’ was meant to be a social gathering,” He nodded accusingly at the other occupants of the room: Minerva McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin, and Molly and Arthur Weasley.

            “Oh, yes, yes! We were all just confirming our plans for the battle tomorrow. We are done now though,” the old man replied, whilst ushering the small group out of his office. None of the five order member greeted Severus; Shacklebolt even had the audacity to sneer at him. Apparently his loyalties were being questioned again.

            “Albus, you shouldn’t have to keep reassuring them, what does it matter what they think of me? You are the only one bothered by their shenanigans and you should be more focused on protecting the castle, not chastising Order members,” the younger wizard sneered. But after a moment of the loony old Headmaster simply staring at him with his twinkling blue eyes, Severus had had enough, and snapped, “What did you call me here for? You must realise that I have a Dark Lord watching my every move. If you really think I can continuously keep making excuses for the hours that I just disappear to come _visit_ you, than you are very sadly mistaken!” By this time the angry spy had risen from his seat and stalked irately to the door.

            “Severus, sit down. I did have a purpose for calling you here,” said a suddenly very tired looking Albus Dumbledore. After Severus had grudgingly reseated himself, the man began again. “You see, I suspect that I shall not survive this upcoming confrontation.” Here the old man paused again, as if he expected Severus to begin sobbing in anguish for this terrible loss. But upon sensing no sympathy from the Head of Slytherin House, continued. “Consequently, I have been entrusting some of my most important secrets to a very select few. The information I have for you is vital to our cause, but you _must_ make sure no one learns of it, especially Harry!”

            For a moment Severus was too shocked to speak. Albus never gave him important information. _Never_. Not that he was bitter about it; he knew that it would be terribly foolish to give your secrets to the servant of your enemy, spy or not. These must be desperate times, indeed, if Dumbledore saw fit to tell him anything crucial.

            “Why must Potter be kept in the dark? It seems to me, if in fact the boy is the key to winning the war, that he should be, at the very least, as well informed as I am.”

            “But, you see, this piece of information is about Harry, and I don’t think it would be encouraging to him before he completes his task.” Here the ancient Headmaster paused, and seemed to be gathering the courage to continue. “You must not think less of me, Severus; I did it for his own good, for all of our sakes, really. Do you remember the prophecy you overheard seventeen years ago?” And after receiving an affirmative nod, “Well you see, my dear boy, it was all a ploy, a distraction really, of my creation. The side of the light was losing and we needed a savior. So I hired Sybill to have a “vision” of said deliverer. I had expected the Dark Lord to become discouraged. At the time it was widely believed that it was impossible to escape one’s fate, and since you only informed him of the first half of the grizzly thing, I saw no possible flaws to my plan.” The Headmaster paused again, and it was several long minutes before he continued. “Voldemort, however, has never been one to care about expectations.” Another weighted silence ensued, in which Severus refused to speak or break eye contact with the guilty man across from him.

            “And then Lily and James became pregnant with Harry… and I knew that Voldemort would feel more threatened by the Potter’s son than the Longbottom’s. You know, he saw himself in Harry, what with his parentage? Anyway, I tried… I really did try to save them, to protect them. But they put their trust in the wrong person. What could I have done?” At this Dumbledore glanced back up at him pleadingly, as if Severus alone could relieve him of the years of staggering guilt. But receiving none, plodded on. “So, my dear boy, you must understand why I have to entrust this to you. After the war is over, once Harry has fulfilled his destiny, someone must be here to tell him the truth. You must do it Severus; you will be the one to tell him—”

            Finally losing his patience, Severus shouted, “How can you expect me to do that? If I even manage to survive, which we both know is unlikely at best, Potter will never listen to me. He despises me, and I him!” Taking a gasping a breath, he continued his tirade. “And furthermore, how dare you? HOW DARE YOU? Lily Evens was my best friend, and now you’re telling me you are solely accountable for the circumstances responsible for her murder. And to think I resented her son. I believed he was the reason for her death… But it was _you_ all along!”

            Rising to his feet, Severus began to furiously pace the large office, cloak billowing ominously. Suddenly he halted, and abruptly whirled to face the cowering fool, Albus Dumbledore. “That boy trusts you… his parents trusted you—I _trusted_ you. You despicable coward… I’ll tell Harry, but I’m telling him now! And don’t bother trying to stop me. I am no longer in your allegiance. You’ll need to find a new potions professor; consider this my resignation.” Finally lost for words, the former Hogwarts professor stalked to the door, throwing it brutally open in his haste to leave the spineless whelps’ presence. But he paused in the doorway, only turning sideways so that he could only see his former mentor out of the corner of his eye. “If the boy wishes to seek vengeance on you, I want you to know I will participate in your downfall.” And with that Severus slammed Dumbledore’s door for the last time, jogging out of the castle in his haste to get away from the horrifying things he had learned.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            He was having such a pleasant dream, more images of magical castles and friendly loving faces swam behind his eyes. After he had awoken from the first nightmare, he’d easily fallen back to sleep once his erratic breathing had evened and he’d readjusted his blanket. But now he was being roughly dragged out of unconsciousness. There was a strong hand clasping his bare shoulder, and, as he opened his eyes, he could dimly see the vague outline of a large man standing over him. While he had slept, twilight had come and gone, and the sky was a now a solid black cloud; there wasn’t a star in sight. So he had to squint hard as he tried to identify the unwelcome intruder.

            But before he could wipe the grime from his eyes, the mystery man began to speak. “Hey, hey, are you all right there?” came the earnest inquiry. His vision finally clearing, he was able to take in the darkened surroundings. He was still in his alley under his makeshift shelter, but there was an addition: this large bloke, who continued to ask questions in quick succession. “Son, what’s your name? Are you alright, there’s blood on that blanket? Where are your parents, can I call them for you?”

            It was too much for him to take in and all he could do was stare up at the man, who he could see as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, was quite old. His hair seemed to glow bright silver, with a few dark patches where there must be either coffee coloured or black hair. Even in the darkness, the stranger’s eyes gleamed, not with malevolence, but good cheer and he could see a wide friendly smile stretching across the open face. There were wrinkles everywhere, which made him suspect that this person must be at least seventy years old. And for some unexplainable reason, a small voice kept whispering _muggle_ at the back of his mind.

            “Sorry, lad, sometimes I get a bit carried away. What’s your name?” the _muggle_ repeated slowly. But he didn’t know his name, so he just continued to stare. “It’s all right, you can tell me. Here I’ll tell you my name. It’s Frank.” Here the talkative man paused, expecting an answer.

            Unfortunately, he still had no idea what his name was, so he just shook his head. But when the man looked confused, he tried to clear his throat. After a few hacking coughs, during which the stranger patted him on the back, he was able to croak out a few words. “I d-don’t remember.” It was the best that he could do by way of communication; he desperately needed water.

            “What do you say you come with me, you look like you need some help? I live right around the corner and I can give you some tea, while we figure out what to do with you. Do you need some help getting up?” asked Frank, the _muggle_ , his mind kept supplying. This time he was able to understand the man’s hurried speech and while he didn’t trust the man, he knew he was in no position to turn down assistance.

            Offering up a hand in silent plea for support, he was carefully pulled to his feet, his skinny legs wobbling unsurely with his sudden weight. Regrettably, the sheet he had been using didn’t follow him up; a gasp from Frank alerted him. “What happened to you? Who did this! Never mind, never mind. I’m getting you back to my apartment and we’re going to get all of this sorted?” With that the older man, scooped up the boy’s old sheet, and, wrapping it around him, began hurriedly pulling him to the opening of the alleyway. 

            His unsteady legs tripping over each other as he hurried to keep up with the hastening man, his eyes widened as he was pulled from the safety and familiarity of his safe haven. There were no other people around, but an endless stretch of buildings adorned with bright flashing lights were enough to overwhelm him. But this was all a blur as he was hastily tugged down the sidewalk. He didn’t try to resist. What was the point? Besides this man, Frank, seemed to be… concerned about him. It reminded him of the freckled family he’d seen in his dreams.

            After no time at all, Frank was pulling him up a short flight of stairs and stopping to unlock the door once they’d reached the landing. While he waited for the man to finish fumbling with his keys, he leaned against the wall beside the door, trying, and failing to catch his breath. Each gulp of air seemed to rattle his lungs and burned his throat. Finally his new friend had managed to open the door and was ushering him in with all sorts of welcoming mumbles and hurried apologies for the mess. Everything Frank did seemed to be rushed.

            Before he could blink, he was being pushed into a stiff chair and handed a little blue pill and large glass of water, accompanied by a quick explanation of it being medicine—whatever that was—for his cough. After swallowing the tablet and gulping down the entire glass, he began to take in what was happening to around him.

            Frank was a flurry of limbs, as he rushed around the tiny kitchen. Everything was grungy and there were dirty dishes piled everywhere, but he didn’t care. At the moment he couldn’t take his eyes off the food his savior was preparing. There was already a large bowl of what he thought must be tomato soup, and Frank was in the process of cutting a large hunk of bread for him. As he finished, the tea kettle on the stovetop began to whistle and the elderly man sped over to silence it.

            Suddenly, the table at which he sat was overflowing with the food that Frank had prepared. And after quickly encouraging him to tuck in, the energetic man sped from the room. He only paused a moment to wonder where the man was off to before he couldn’t control the gnawing hunger any longer.

            He started with the bread since both the soup and tea were scalding. It was delicious and fresh, and after taking his first bite he could not help himself from greedily stuffing the rest into his mouth. Once he’d gulped down this first delicacy, he was forced to take a sip of the tea to sooth his sore throat.

            Then he moved onto the creamy tomato soup. Taking a deep breath through his nose, the aroma caused his mouth to flood with saliva while the steam cleared his head. Picking up large soup spoon Frank had thoughtfully provided for him, he scooped up a scalding dollop of tomato. He was eager to taste it, but wasn’t keen on burning the roof of his mouth, so he blew on it hurriedly before dumping the spoonful into his waiting mouth.

            Bliss, complete and utter bliss… he decided, as he began to shovel more and more of the divine substance into his mouth. Not only was it the most heavenly thing he’d ever tasted (at least he thought it was…) but he hadn’t been aware of exactly how cold he was until now. Moaning happily to himself, he felt the hot liquid trickle down his esophagus and pool in his stomach. Heat radiated from his torso and spread slowly out towards the tips of his fingers and toes.

            But before too long the bowl was empty and his previously aching stomach was bloated with tomato soup and fresh bread. Now all that was left was the tea, which was now a more reasonable temperature, not that he thought he’d be able to drink it. He was that stuffed. As he began to sip at the pleasant beverage, Frank came tearing back into the room.

            “Oh good, you’ve almost finished! I’ve just started running you a bath, there are towels above the sink and I managed to find some clothes that won’t swallow you whole. They’re on the counter. Feel free to use my soap, I can tell it’s been a while since you’ve had a real bath,” the kindly old man began to ramble.

He supposed that it must have been a while since he last bathed, seeing as rain didn’t count. Quickly gulping down the remaining tea, he rose and followed his host obediently down a dimly lit corridor, coming to a stop once they reached a small loo at the end of the hall.

            “I know it’s not much but it’ll have to do. Oh, and when you’re done just leave that old sheet on the floor. I’ll have to burn it later,” Frank said jovially, ushering his guest in and politely closing the door behind him.

            Once he was alone, all he could focus on was the steaming tub. Apparently everything Frank did was fast _and_ wonderfully warm. As swiftly as he could, he shrugged out of his old blanket before folding it neatly and laying it in the corner. Then, almost reverently, he approached the nearly filled tub. Cutting off the water, all he could do was stare for a moment; he wondered what it would feel like to be _that_ warm.

            Hesitantly, he dipped a hand into clear sweltering paradise. Jerking his hand out, he nearly tumbled to the floor in his attempt to scramble into the bathtub; he’d leave being speedy to Frank. The water was so hot that even as he was situating himself, his pale skin was beginning to glow with a pale pink blush. Leaning contentedly back to rest his head against the wall, he sunk down until only his eyes remained above the water. The heat he’d received from the soup was _nothing_ compared to this. Coming back up for air, his muscles unwound slowly and he relaxed back down into the water, this time with his nose and mouth above the water too.

            It only took a few more minutes for exhaustion to catch up with him. A belly full of brilliant food, warmth beyond what his practically newborn mind could comprehend, and security that he hadn’t realised he’d lacked, caused his eyes to droop. And eventually he couldn’t resist, drifting easily into blissful sleep.

           

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

_Knock, knock_...

            Startling awake and sloshing water over the sides of the bath, his bleary eyed gaze snapped in the direction of the door where he was sure he’d heard knocking.

“—ey? Are you all right in there?” came Frank’s concerned voice. “You haven’t fallen asleep have you? It’s been thirty minutes; the water must be cold by now—”

            But before Frank went off into one of is longwinded rambles, or, god forbid, came in to check up on him, he hoarsely called out his reassurances until Frank was sufficiently convinced of his well-being. “Alright, well when you’re finished I’ve got the spare bedroom all fixed up for you!”

            He waited for Frank’s footsteps to fade down the hallway, before he grabbed the washcloth that had been so graciously left for him. While the water wasn’t tepid yet, it retained only a fraction of the temperature it had begun with, so he planned to bathe quickly. Grabbing the soap, he began lathering up the cloth. Once a good froth of suds had appeared, he began attacking his body, rubbing with such vigor that his skin turned a hearty scarlet.

            Starting with his head, he worked his way down to his toes, careful not to miss a single patch of skin. However this became more challenging when he went to scrub his back and bum. It wasn’t just because of the awkward angle either, every time he began to even brush the surface of his backside the rough material seemed to burn and sting him; he suspected his buttocks were covered in bruises and scratches. But stubbornness overtook him; he scrubbed through the unpleasant scalding sensation, biting his lip whenever the pain became too much. There was even a bit of blood after he’d washed his arse.

            After he’d finished his body, he lathered up his hair, wincing whenever his fingers caught a snag as he massaged the soap into his tangled mop. But he quickly rinsed out the bubbles when the water reached the dreaded lukewarm temperature.

            Clambering out of the tub, he grabbed hastily for one of the obnoxiously fluffy khaki towels resting on the rack above the sink. Huddling into it to stave off the cool air of the bathroom, he began to pat himself dry, being especially cautious as he dabbed at his sensitive bum.

            After thoroughly drying himself, he plucked up a pair of boxers from the pile of clothes Frank had left him. They were at least three sizes too big, but if he folded down the waist band they would at least stay up on his hips. In addition to the boxers, he’d been provided with a pair of tan corduroy trousers, a black cotton jumper, and a thick pair of white socks. Everything except the top was too large on him, but he couldn’t complain. He was simply delighted that he had his own fresh clean clothes to wear, even if they were on loan.

            Straightening his newly acquired outfit, he turned to exit the cramped little room, but was momentarily distracted by a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning quickly in anticipation for a threat of mysterious origins, all he was faced with was a mirror. The flash of movement he’d witnessed must have been his reflection following him speedily towards the door.

            Peering curiously at himself for the first time, he stared, shocked at what he saw. A familiar stock of messy black hair framed his face, just long enough to tickle the ridge of his ear. Bright green eyes stared back at him brightly, with an expression of intense confusion clearly written in them. His reflection had fair skin, and his cheeks were still stained the color of cherries from the overzealous scouring from earlier. He had a slight frame with narrow shoulders, lean muscles, and stood a little under five and a half feet.

            But perhaps most surprising of all, was the striking lightning bolt scar on his forehead, peeking out from behind his fringe. _He_ was the boy from his dreams! But the boy from his subconscious had loved ones who cared for him; that boy lived in a magnificent magical castle. If they were, indeed, same person then where was this caring freckled-family. Where were his friends?


	7. Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me, okay? Okay.

  
**Chapter Seven:** Retribution

* * *

 

                There were Death Eaters in the castle. His godson had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Even Greyback was there. And Severus was with them, a part of them. For once, this pleased him. Throwing open the doors to the Great Hall, the Potions Master fixed a steely expression of determination onto his face. He was going to kill Albus Dumbledore.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            Blood. All she could see was blood. It was on her robes, in her hair, and on her hands. It was smeared over the crumbling walls and puddled under piles of bodies. It dripped from the ceilings and pooled in the newly formed cracks on the ancient stone floor. There was even some between her toes.

            Ron was dead. His face was masked by thick black clumps of blood. His chest was caked with it. Every few seconds one of her tears would drip from her chin, splashing silently onto her friend’s lifeless face. Each droplet made ugly brown streaks appear on the stiff boy’s face, exposing his pale freckles and frozen expression.

            She couldn’t look away. Despite the battle raging all about her, she was overcome with shock and an unexpected sorrowful regret. So consumed with grief, she began to wail, voice cracking and throat thick with emotion. But the din of war drowned out her cries of agony. Curses were flying all around her and every once and awhile, telling green sparks would go whizzing right over her head. Shouts and screams encircled her, but instead of bringing her attention back to the fray, they simply drove her farther into misty eyed oblivion.

            Clutching her unresponsive companion to her chest, she began to weep in earnest, further sullying the filthy corpse. Blood would undoubtedly be matted into her bushy hair, but this was of no concern to her. Pulling back to stare into the dull cerulean eyes that had once been filled with so much life, she couldn’t understand how this had come to be.

            The pair had only just dropped the bright pink umbrella portkey after they’d appeared suddenly into one of the many courtyards of Hogwarts, when chaos had erupted. Thinking back, she realised that it was more likely that they had simply materialized in the midst of the madness, but for a brief moment there had been a serene peace. A fleeting moment of calm had greeted them—she and Ron had exchanged grins, simply happy to be on another grand adventure together—before the pandemonium had recommenced.

            It had happened so fast. One moment they were smiling and holding hands, pleased to have had snuck into the castle, and the next there had been blood. Everywhere. It had splattered over her face and effectively blinded her. Acting instinctually, she’d ducked down to avoid future curses and had hastily used the sleeves of her robes to wipe the blood from her eyes. After visibility had returned, she’d whipped around in search of her comrade; they’d needed to get to a more secure location before setting their plan in motion. But as she’d glanced around, her redheaded friend had been nowhere to be found.

            Stumbling to her feet, she’d made to go off in search of him. It had only taken her a few rapid steps before she had been on the ground again, having suddenly tripped. Glancing back, she’d seen Ron lying limply on the stone slabs. At the time it hadn’t occurred to her that he might have been dead. Friends didn’t die. Sure, sometimes they were violently thrown off giant chess pieces, chased by werewolves, or even possessed by evil overlords, but they never _died_. So after she had crawled over to her immobile companion, she had become confused.

            There had been two deep slashes across Ron’s torso that could have only have been created by a sword. Syrupy black blood had been bubbling from the gapping cavity, but all she had done was stare. Despite her high levels of intelligence, nothing had occurred to her; later she would know why. She’d inherently known her friend was gone. His eyes had given it away; she’d never seen them so lifeless.

            Returning to the present, her head snapped up. She was sure she’d heard someone call her name. There it was again.

            “—ermione! HERMIONE!” The voices could just be heard over the bedlam, but she ignored them. She wouldn’t leave her Ron.

            But she was abruptly snatched up into a pair of muscled arms. Lashing out, she kicked and screamed as she was dragged roughly away by her assailant. She refused to be taken without a fight.

            “Hey, hey, Hermione calm down. You have to calm down!” a familiar voice yelled at her.

            “Yeah, quit kicking us! Don’t worry we brought Ron too,” said the other twin.

            Slowly, Hermione came back to herself. Her arms stopped swinging and her legs ceased their thrashing. Eventually, her breathing returned to erratic gasps instead of hysterical wheezes and she began to recognize what was going on around her. The screams and mêlée of the battle were muffled, the air was clear of stray hexes, and the walls were free of innocent blood.

            She could dimly see two shadowy figures looming over her and she recognized them as the twins. She tried to tilt her head up to see them better, but her vision spun and everything became a swirl of bright colour. She never had a chance to hit the ground though, before one of her rescuers had grabbed her and gently placed her on a desk. Apparently they were in a classroom. Ancient Runes, she concluded.

            She could vaguely hear Fred and George conversing, something about “going into shock” and “edible Dark Marks.” Something was shoved into her hands and she could hear Fred, or George (did it really matter), instructing her to eat whatever it was. Not caring what the mysterious substance was—and who could really know when it came to the twins—she popped it into her mouth and realised it was chocolate. At least the twins knew when to be serious.

            “How do you like our Edible Dark Marks? They’ll be available for purchase within the next month.”

            Maybe not. But she couldn’t keep from giggling at their attempt at humor. Yet as her pulse began to slow, her mind began to hum at its usual hurried pace. It was this mental clarity that prompted her soft chuckles to morph into feverish sobs and Hermione gazed imploringly up at them.

            “R-ron’s d-d—he’s g-gone?” she whimpered pitifully through a barrage of snot and tears.

            “Yeah, we know. But he’s not the only one. Bill and Charlie were killed almost immediately and we haven’t seen Mum and Dad for a while,” George said in a monotone. It was obvious that he was trying to suppress the worry and grief for his family.

            “Now we’re going to get revenge,” Fred added after a lengthy pause, in which all of their minds were forced to consider the possible deaths of Arthur and Molly Weasley. “Care to join us?” It was asked with a forced grin, but the same playful spirit shone through the gloom, promising great escapades and conquests. But the real reason she agreed was the idea of dealing out vengeance to whoever had murdered her best friend.

           

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            From his strategic position behind a large marble statue—of who knew what— at the top of the marble staircase, Severus Snape had a perfect view of the battle raging away before him in the Entrance Hall.

McGonagall, Flitwick, Sinistra, and Kingsley were all battling one crazed Death Eater each. Curses flew overhead, bouncing off walls and reflecting off the broken glass and jewels of the shattered House Hourglasses. The once impressive lobby was now in ruins and the battle was nowhere near complete. It wouldn’t be until Albus Dumbledore was dead.

            The frosty white beard and garish yellow robes were a mere blur as the ancient Headmaster danced fiercely around the hall. His movements were calculated and precise. Not a spell was wasted, each one specifically chosen to distract or disable one of the old warrior’s many opponents. There were five of them in all: Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair. But the skilled wizard deflected their attacks with ease and almost seemed to be enjoying himself, as if he were not at the center of a boiling fray. Severus expected him to pause at any moment and ask if anyone wanted a spot of tea or perhaps one of those blasted lemon drops.

            Despite the man’s easy evasions and ingenious assaults, the thought of battling Dumbledore did not faze the rigid Potions Master. He had gained neither his title nor prestige from being only a mediocre dueler. And for all of Dumbledore’s wisdom, there were things he didn’t know; not much mind you, but enough. Severus intended to use these secrets to his full advantage.

            Creeping out from the alcove, Snape darted down the steep marble staircase, nearly tripping several times. Many of the steps were missing and their crumbled remains were scattered over the ground, creating a rough and shifty terrain for the bat-like man to stumble across. Not wanting to waste time and give away his position, Severus aimed his wand and muttered a hurried transformation spell. The Headmaster had no idea his trusted spy had been an Animagus.

            He could feel himself shrinking as the floor came rushing up to greet him. The fragments of glass, stone, and assorted gems now appeared to be hefty boulders considering he was now only four inches tall. Fur began to sprout from his arms, legs, and ears, causing a peculiar prickly sensation as the onyx coloured fuzz spread to cover his tiny new body. Pointy sensitive ebony ears emerged from the crown of his shrunken head as the human lobes shrank back into his skull. He could feel the shifting cartilage of his nose as it morphed into a stubby snout; with a single twitch of his new nose he could identify every wizard in the room. His arms began to stretch and expand, until they both reached the heavily pebbled ground. Wings blossomed from inky potion robes and Severus could feel the impressive strength behind the diminutive muscles. Toes became stumpy jagged talons, while fingers mutated to resemble tiny bear claws. Lastly, he became aware of his canine teeth elongating into two identical razor-sharp prongs. His transformation was complete. He was a bat.

            Severus’s metamorphosis hadn’t taken longer than a few seconds and the battle thundered on all around him. Questionable jinxes and dark curses soared over him and he could feel rumbling vibrations of harried footsteps. He could see none of this though, being blind. The only way he could truly see was through the bats natural _eyes_ : echo location.

Spreading his wings, the Animagus launched itself into the flurry of spells. Echo location made dodging every harmful hex that came whizzing in his direction easier than breathing. His bat’s instincts caused his altered form to automatically swerve out of the path of any unpleasant curses. Another benefit was the built in stealth; no one would ever notice him amidst the mayhem of battle. Now all he had to do was bide his time and wait until the bombastic Headmaster had backed himself into a corner.

            Wheeling around and flapping his miniature wings, Severus made his way to a crest of detailed stone carvings that had remained preserved through the uproar. It was situated near the ceiling, giving him a splendid view of the swirling mass of magical power that marked his target. He didn’t need the bats superior sense of smell, hearing, or sight; he could feel the power swarming around the old fraud and he didn’t intend on letting him get away.

            So, the potions master settled himself upside down and _gazed_ about the chaotic hall. Fenrir Greyback had joined the fray and was currently making his way towards Dumbledore. The grizzly wolf had already downed several of the light’s troops; Severus could smell the blood of the youngest and oldest Weasley on the sadistic old creature. Bill and Ginny Weasley could no longer be alive. By his estimation, there was too much of their blood on the beast. But now the werewolf was facing off with Lupin, his last opponent before he reached the powerful old coot.

            It wasn’t much of a fight. Remus hadn’t been paying any attention; he’d been too focused on Dolohov, who had been tossing out the _Imperious_ curse like it was candy. That’s how Charlie Weasley had perished: an _Imperious_ to the back and then _Avada Kedavra_ to the temple with his own wand. War was ugly.

            Greyback tackled him from behind, apparently too far gone to remember he was a wizard. It only took seconds for Lupin to realise what had happened, but by then it was far too late. His attacker had him pinned to the floor on his back with a filthy claw at his throat. Severus could hear the man’s last gurgles of agony from across the room.

            McGonagall and Flitwick seemed to be holding their own, dueling back to back, together they were keeping three Death Eaters at bay. Sinistra had disappeared and Severus tried hard not to imagine what could have befallen his old colleague. Kingsley had been hit by a stray curse—thanks to Lucius Malfoy—and now lay dead in a pool of growing blood. While Shacklebolt had been an amazing dueler and valuable addition to the light side, the former spy couldn’t muster any remorse for his death. The man had been a bastard.

            The battle had only been raging a quarter of an hour and already bodies lined the walls. Numerous Weasley’s, marked by their garish red hair, had a pile all to themselves. Vibrant scarlet blood clung to them, as though they’d been dipped in a vat of paint, like fondue.

            A number of other Hogwarts students seemed to have snuck in with the Order, because Severus spotted several smaller bodies fallen amid the disarray, most of whom he suspected were ever courageous Gryffindors. He recognized the Creevey brothers and Zacharias Smith. The three seemed to have been mashed into the wall by some large object… ah, yes. There was an abandoned pillar a few yards away; some Death Eater must have levitated the weight and wreaked momentary havoc by swinging the thing around the hall. Apparently, the unfortunate trio of students had been the only ones crushed before the scoundrel wielding the column had been taken down. The three boys had been flattened, their innards exploded from their bodies and now dripped lazily to the floor.

            There were a few Ravenclaws and even more Hufflepuffs, but Severus hadn’t a clue to what their names were. Most were covered with blood, guts, or rubble and the few that were easily visible were too disfigured to recognize. But earlier, he’d watched from behind the statue as Dedalus Diggle was easily struck down by Rodolphus Lestrange. Hestia Jones had been hit by a stray hex—he couldn’t tell who had cast it—and had been slowly strangled to death. Mad-Eye had died at the outset of the fracas, being trampled by the mad rush of bodies; Snape suspected his wooden leg had tripped him up. He hadn’t seen the elder Weasley’s die, but he’d heard their screams and had recently spotted two charred bodies that vaguely resembled the inseparable pair. Many had died.

            But there were just as many out of commission Death Eaters littering the Entrance Hall as there were Order members. Avery was now dust, scattered across the marble staircase thanks to Minerva’s exceptional skill with Transfigurations. The devious old witch had turned him into a horrid old vase that had long ago been trampled and smashed. Severus doubted there would be any pieces left at the end of the day. The Carrow siblings had been dealt with early on by the Potions Master himself. He’d been able to get in a sure fire shot while the two cowards had dawdled in a corner of the hall, obviously reluctant to join the pandemonium.

            Flitwick had downed Thorfinn Rowle, a large blond Death Eater that Severus found especially aggravating because of his tendency to randomly fire off curses at no one in particular—leaving it up to a cruel fate to decide who would die. It had been an accident really. The tiny charms professor had missed his target, Mulciber, and instead his hex had struck a large granite gargoyle which had fallen directly onto the unsuspecting Rowle. Had it not taken place during such a critical battle, Snape would have found the occurrence comical.

            Nott, Rookwood, Rosier, and Travers all been chopped to bits by animated suits of armor—courtesy of Minerva McGonagall. The Scottish Witch must have been a bit over zealous in her instructions to the mindless minions, because they had hacked away at the long dead cadavers until all that was left was bloody bite sized pieces of Voldemort’s sycophants. A squelching noise could be heard whenever anyone tread on the stones at the bottom of the main staircase.

            Snapping back to the present, Severus noticed a commotion by the heavy oak doors leading to the grounds. Fred and George Weasley had propped open the doors and appeared to be assisting Granger—the only member of the Golden Trio that the former professor had seen so far—arrange some sort of launcher.

            He watched with growing interest as the three masterminds, quickly hopped back from the contraption. One of the twins—he suspected George—gave a complicated flick of his wand and suddenly the already tumultuous hall exploded in bright bursts of colour. The entrepreneurs seemed to think now was a suitable time to test their products. And after a moment of observation, Severus couldn’t have agreed more.

            Initially, the spy could only see surges of dazzling light in multiple shades of red, green, and gold, but once his ‘eyes’ had adjusted, he’d began to notice a pattern. The new and improved trio seemed to have unleashed fireworks and not just any fireworks; Snape recognized them from the Twin’s inspiring departure during the Reign of Umbridge. But while this served as a temporary distraction, the bat couldn’t understand why the threesome of students looked so pleased with themselves. 

            Glancing back to the ensuing chaos, Snape received his answer. All the Death Eaters appeared to be under attack from the incorporeal firework dragons. Well, all but Greyback, who was taking the momentary lull to harass the Headmaster. The rest of them, however, were clawing at their skin that seemed to be bubbling. The remaining Order members watched in horrified fascination as their opponents writhed in agony, their skin seemed to be melting right off their bones. The denser wizards were attempting to stun—and in some cases kill—the ethereal creatures, while shrewder Death Eaters had apparated away, since the wards had fallen away at the commencement of the battle. The Lestranges and Lucius Malfoy had been the ones to escape. Every person remaining in the hall who wore the Dark Mark was dead within minutes of the Catherine wheel’s attack. Their bodies were strewn haphazardly across the floor, blood running thicker than ever.

The irony did not escape the spy. In the Dark Lord's brutal attempt to purify the wizarding race, he’d spilt pure blood. And now it all mixed on the battle field.  

            Now that the present bedlam had ceased, other confrontations could be heard in the distance. Severus suspected smaller wars were being fought in the nearby courtyards. While the other Order members rushed to aid their colleagues, Snape remained behind. It seemed the Headmaster was having a spot of trouble ending the reckless werewolf. Fenrir, while not the brightest wizard, was aggressive and unafraid of death. This made him an impossible opponent, even for the formidable warlock, Albus Dumbledore. Despite the challenge, however, the barmy old man was dominating the confrontation and Greyback knew it. The mangy wolf began a hasty retreat up the marble staircase and farther into the depths of the school. As Dumbledore galloped after the feral beast, Severus saw his chance. Dropping from his perch on the stone, the Animagus swooped after the unsuspecting man.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            The Twin’s Deadly Dragon Bangers had been amazingly effective. They’d done exactly what Fred and George had claimed they would; with a couple added charms the weapon had targeted only those in the hall who wore the Dark Mark. George had explained to her the process, how the wraithlike creatures would seek out the Marks as a power source. The heat of the energy transaction would essentially boil the victim alive. The gangly freckled pair was truly genius.

            But the battle wasn’t over. She could still hear the furor from the southern courtyard. Shouts and screams reached her ears as she sprinted after her matching companions, the uninjured Order members in her wake. Sprinting across the grounds, Hermione tried to keep her last glimpse of Ron from entering her conscious, not to mention the piles of mutilated bodies from the entrance hall. If she focused hard enough on the present pounding of footsteps and cries of terror echoing from the courtyard, she could keep the grisly visions at bay.

            As they approached the tremendous hubbub of the yard, a gargantuan fiery pillar rose up and towered above the arches marking the enclosure. Flaming beasts roared and devoured everything in their path. There was a blazing griffon, at least the size of a wardrobe that had begun to furiously gobble up the lifeless bodies scattered around the square. A massive pair of flickering lions, both the size of the Whomping Willow, engulfed everything in their paths. Death Eaters and Order members alike fell to the ravaging heat, even Hermione who had stopped at the entrance to the courtyard was forced to retreat because of its overpowering intensity. A hippogriff sizzled past, sending sparks raining down on the castle that seemed to consume everything in its path as though they had an unquenchable hunger for the school. Someone had summoned Fiendfire.

            Only two had made it out alive: Neville Longbottom and Nymphadora Tonks. Hermione could only guess as to how the normally disastrous duo had managed to survive. They came stumbling out as the doorway arch came tumbling down, nearly nicking Neville’s shoulder on its path towards the ground.

            The small group of comrades huddled together on the grounds and watched as the devastating blaze spread. Soon, all of Hogwarts would be victim to the flames.

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

            He really wished his Animagus form could have been something larger like an Eagle or a Raven. At this point he would have even settled for a pigeon. Hogwarts had never felt so large before he’d actually had to flap through the drafty corridors.

            So far Albus had chased the mongrel up six flights of stairs, eight cluttered hallways, and through a number of abandoned classrooms. The amount of damage they were wreaking upon the castle was monumental; the Headmaster, himself, must have blasted at least three gaping holes in the stone walls so far.

            The potions guru followed at a respectful distance, beating his tiny wings as softly as possible for the off chance that either hooligan was listening. There was really no opportunity for them to notice, not between their reverberating footfalls and the distant clamor of battle. Dumbledore needed to hurry up and corner the bastard so Severus could begin his vengeance. They were nearing the seventh floor landing when the werewolf put on a—hopefully the last—burst of speed. Somehow the ancient wizard pursuing him was able to keep up, and they both disappeared up the stairs leading to the astronomy tower, leaving their invisible shadow behind.

            Exhausted from the ridiculous race, Severus transformed back into his willowy human body. Doubling over, with hands braced on his knees, the ex-professor tried to catch his breath. Being a bat was exhausting; he much preferred his billowing black cloak to the teensy wings any day.

            Once he’d recovered enough, the restored man drew his wand from the depths of his robes and began a deliberate march up the winding flight of stairs that led to the astronomy tower. He could hear Greyback’s savage snarls as he ascended the turret steps. But as he approached the top, the growls morphed into whimpering and as he stalked through the doorway all sound ceased.

            It didn’t really surprise him. He’d seen gore before; being the Dark Lord's second in command had accustomed him to the worst types of slaughter. Despite this, Severus couldn’t help being a little taken aback by the scene he invaded.

            Globs of black blood painted the ramparts. Pink intestines had been flung every which way and even dangled from the balustrades. In the middle of it all was the mangles corpse of the long feared Fenrir Greyback. If Severus was right, then the monster had been enlarged before the Headmaster had hit him with an _Expulso_. Albus had been creative.

            Said man, was standing over the body, gazing down at the blood spattered pelt, in what the Potions Master could only describe as gratified revelry. It was more than a little disturbing. Without acknowledging the intruder, Dumbledore strode over to the railings. He gazed out into the distance as if he was observing his kingdom for the first time, with amazement and satisfaction.

            Picking his way carefully through the carnage, the spy joined the Headmaster and reclined against the rails and contemplated the panorama before him. The castle was an inferno. He could now hear the blaze roaring ferociously, claiming everything in its path. Flames danced, leaping freely from level to level, consuming Hogwarts bit by bit. But even more astounding was its reflection in the Black Lake; he could see the fire cavorting just as madly in the smooth glassy surface of the water.

            “You can’t stop it?” Severus broke the delicate silence.

            “No.”

            “Expelliarmus.” It was whispered so quietly, that the dull roar of the inferno nearly masked it.

            “So you _have_ come to kill me. I wondered if you had been murdered when I didn’t see you during the battle,” said the whimsical Headmaster. He spoke as if remarking on the weather, typical for the old man. Snape had always been intrigued by Albus’ ability to remain calm in stressful situations.

            “Where is the boy?” It wasn’t necessary to specify who. There was only one person Severus was interested in finding and Dumbledore knew it.

            “I wish I knew.”

            Whirling to face the batty old man, Severus snarled, “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re supposed to be watching him!”

            “My dear boy, I am not responsible for him over the summer. He is with his Aunt.”

            “I was under the impression you were the only one who knew of his location,” he grit out through his teeth. “You were made secret keeper, of course you know where he is!”

            “Severus, all that means is that I know his relatives’ address, nothing else.”

            “Well,” snarled the furious Potions Master. “Where is the boy if he isn’t with his family?”

            “I don’t know,” sighed the Headmaster. The man looked even older in that moment than his respectable one hundred and fifty years.

            Severus was speechless for a few moments. Harry Potter was missing. He couldn’t believe it. If this got out the wizarding world would spiral into chaos. The Dark Lord would rise to power easily. But more importantly was the fact that Lily’s son had disappeared. He had to find him. For Lily.

            “I thought there were wards, shouldn’t they have alerted you?” It was his last hope. Surely the pathetic old man knew something.

            “Unfortunately the wards were designed only to alert me of his death or to the presence of Death Eaters on the premises,” said the older wizard tiredly.

            “Then how do you even know that Potter’s missing!” the irate man raged.

            “Oh… his aunt sent me a letter this morning informing me that the boy had run away. She told me she was no longer accountable for the ‘ungrateful brat.’ She was quite rude Severus, quite rude indeed,” the aged warlock rambled.

            Finally losing his temper, Snape lunged toward the infuriating wizard and grabbed him by the collar of his absurd lemon stained robes. Shaking him roughly and dropping all semblance of control, he yelled, “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE? YOU’VE LOST THE BOY-WHO-FUCKING-LIVED!” Spittle flew and his eyes flashed with fury. He couldn’t wait until he got to kill the aggravating bastard.

            “Please, Severus,” the pitiful old man whined. “Stop shaking me. I don’t understand why you’re so upset. You never even liked Harry. Now that you know that the prophecy is false, we don’t even need him anymore. He was only ever a pawn. You should be relieved.” The headmaster flinched from Severus’ grasp, backing into the balustrade in his attempt to flee.

            He couldn’t believe his ears. This man, that everyone had trusted, was nothing more than a contemptible ogre. Raising both wands—both his and the one he’d capture from the piteous imp before him—Severus leveled them at Dumbledore’s heart. 

            “I never hated him more than I loathe you right now.”

            “Severus…”

            “No! How dare you use Lily’s son and expect to live. I’m going to _kill_ you!”

            “Severus… please…” the doomed wizard pleaded, but all in vain.

            “ _Avada Kedavra_.”

            For a moment time froze. The brilliant green light hovered at the tip of the united wands. Flaming waves of fire seemed to halt and the roar lulled to a mere whisper. Albus’ pleading turned silent. All Severus could hear was his own rhythmic breathing. But it only lasted for the twinkling of a second.

            The moment ended and suddenly the vivid emerald sparks of the killing curse smashed into Albus Dumbledore’s chest, propelling him backwards off the tower, where he hovered lifelessly for a split second before falling quickly out of sight.

            Severus was frozen for a moment, in which he considered what he’d just done. But then he heard the thump of a dead body hitting the ground and the shrill cries of shocked Order members over the steady rumble of the inferno. Taking a step forward, he gripped the rail of the Astronomy tower and peered down.

            At the foot of the battlements lay the corpse of his mentor. The man was spread-eagle and Severus was sure—although he was too far away to tell—that his eyes were open, staring dully up at the heavens.

            Surrounding the body were the tiny figures of his former acquaintances. He held no allusions of what they would think of him. His loyalties had already been questioned and now he’d just murdered their leader—they would assume in cold blood. Even as he thought this, Snape saw heads swivel and stare up at him. He could imagine their expressions of outrage and disgust.

            Sensing the end of an era, the assumed traitor tossed the dead man’s wand over the ramparts. After watching it land with its owner, Severus turned his wand on himself and adopted the form of his bat. Without another glance at the burning castle, he launched himself into the sky.

The Animagus disappeared into the ambiguousness of twilight.


	8. Chapter 8

  
**Chapter Eight:** Spawn

 

                He was doing the dishes when the doorbell rang. It startled him so badly that the plate he was holding fell from his fingers and shattered onto the floor. Sharp white flecks of porcelain littered the tiles, making it impossible for him to move his bare feet. As Frank rushed out of the room, assuring him that all was well, he tried to calm himself with quick gasping breaths. Over the past week, they’d discovered he didn’t react well to surprises. So once he had gained control of his breathing, he knelt and began the tedious chore of collecting the small shards of china.

                Finishing his task, he stood and found himself faced with the sight of Frank and a familiar looking stranger. The young man accompanying his host looked like the boy in Frank’s dusty photo albums. The teen, with the broken dish, felt a strong urge to hide when he noticed the young man’s size. Frank’s guest had his same build—broad shoulders with powerful looking arms and chest—but with added height and without the withering of old age. He looked to be in his early twenties and towered over the scrawny boy, glaring down at him with distaste. Tightly cropped sandy hair, capped the gentlemen’s crown and he sported a slightly darker goatee. His eyes were small, shrewd, and grey; they harbored no warmth, at least not for him. A short bulbous nose occupied the strangers face, accompanied by a disproportionately small pinched mouth.

                “This is my grandson, Talhaern Vice,” Frank said cheerily. He didn’t seem to notice the way his new visitor was scowling at his guest. “He’s come to visit me for a few days; isn’t that exciting?  I’m sure you both will become the best of friends. I was just telling him about you…”

                As Frank rambled on in his usual speedy pace, a standoff ensued. The grandson looked as if he smelled something utterly disgusting as he glowered menacingly at his grandfather’s other guest. Resisting the urge to cower, his opponent wondered why he found the revulsion in Talhaern’s face so familiar. He could only imagine that in his former life before he’d met Frank, he’d had many enemies. It would make sense too, considering the condition he awoke in over a week ago. Someone must have absolutely despised him to cause so much damage; at least that’s what he had assumed from Frank’s furious expression at some of the scars they’d found scattered over his body…and he hadn’t even shown the man the full extent of his injuries. Not that he’d had much of a chance anyway; his injuries had all healed surprisingly quickly and after a few days all but the most severe injuries had disappeared. Most satisfying to him was that he could now plop down without the fear of a stabbing pain in his arse.

                It was this last thought that caused—for some unknown reason—the end of the young men’s staring contest. He was forced to avert his eyes, instincts beyond his control forcing him to flinch from the harsh gaze.

                Interrupting the old man carelessly, Talhaern directed his irritated question to the room. “Who is this? I thought father told you not to bring strangers into your apartment anymore. Don’t you remember the last time, when that _scum_ stole all of Nan Aileen’s jewelry?” He spat the word ‘scum’ with such distaste, that Talhaern’s meaning was quite clear: he was _filth_.

                At this Frank’s tanned face turned a pasty shade of gray; it was the first time he’d ever seen the man look anything other than cheery and the contrast was rather alarming. The usually rosy-cheeked old timer now looked to be on Death’s door, his eyes dull and empty. He knew—from his host’s vast array of photographs—that Aileen had been Frank’s wife before she’d died a number of years ago, but he’d never seen his host look so distraught from the mere mentioning of her name. Usually, the elderly old man would ramble on and on about his past Love, telling all sorts of stories about shared picnics, travels, and grandchildren. However, these recollections had always been expressed with fond smiles and gaiety. Suddenly, he was filled with a deep loathing for Talhaern’s callous reminder of what the widower had lost. This man had no right to upset his host so spectacularly.

                But before he could either console his host or reprimand the intimidating grandson, Frank had recovered. Spluttering indignantly and developing a furious blush, he retorted angrily. “Of course, I remember! Don’t patronize me, young man! This Laddie, here, wouldn’t hurt a fly and besides, he needed my help. You should have seen him, Talhaern, so many bruises and scrapes, that at first I didn’t know what he was.” 

                “Be that as it may, he looks fine now and you don’t know whether or not he’ll run off with anymore of Nan’s trinkets,” Talhaern said, sounding patient, but the look in his face told otherwise. Then, turning to the wide eyed observer, he asked, “What’s your name anyway, boy?”

                There was a brief moment before he answered, when the boy still holding the shattered dishware was struck with a rush of memories. An angry man—the one from his dreams—was yelling at him, while a boy the size of whale laughed uproariously. The familiar beefy man was turning purple as he hollered at the cowering youth and finally, seeming to lose his patience, grabbed the teen and began dragging him roughly towards a small doghouse. As he was thrown forcefully to the ground, he could hear the man yelling his final words: “You’re worthless, _boy_!”

                Snapping back to the present, he stared wide eyed up at Talhaern. The man was glaring down at him expectantly and he remembered that the intimidating man was awaiting his response.

                “S-sir, I don’t r-remember my name. I don’t remember anything.”

 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 

                Headquarters was swarming with bodies. It seemed as if every remaining member of the Light side had made this place their temporary home. No one felt safe alone anymore. Not since the Battle of Hogwarts. They all probably thought that if the Death Eaters could penetrate the school then _nowhere_ was safe.

                Hermione supposed they were right, too. She could understand the uncontrollable need to not be alone. In fact she and the twins had been inseparable ever since Hogwarts had burned to the ground. It had been only a week ago that they’d all stood huddled on the grounds of the ancient castle as it burned to ashes. She could feel the insufferable heat of the Fiendfire on her skin when she thought about that night. The screams of her friends mixed with those of her enemies as they were all burned alive. Ron’s lifeless face and dull eyes stared up at her in her dreams. Albus Dumbledore’s figure falling—as if in slow motion—from the Astronomy Tower as she watched helplessly. The thump as his dead body striking the ground. Her dreams were filled with the shrieks of the dead and whenever she was alone she would imagine blood dripping off the walls, seeping through the floor, and oozing from the ceilings.

                That was why she was currently curled up on one of the many musty arm chairs scattered about the second floor drawing room. She’d been occupying the same chair for the past week. Moving simply hadn’t seemed like a priority ever since they had all returned from the battle. Nothing was important now. Not since Ron died. Not since Dumbledore had fallen from the tower. Not since that bastard Snape had gotten away. And especially not since Hagrid had returned from Harry’s relatives house empty handed.  It felt to Hermione as if nothing would ever be right again.

                In all the hustle and bustle after the battle, with all the wounded, dead, and missing Order members, that everyone had forgotten about their Savior. At least until she had finally exploded at them yesterday. Professor McGonagall had been trying to persuade her to move from her position on the lounger, when she’d finally lost her temper.

                “SHUT UP, YOU BITCH! BLOODY HELL! CAN’T YOU SEE I WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE? Gods Professor, why don’t you go do something useful? Like…like…LIKE PERHAPS CHECKING ON HARRY?! NO ONE’S EVEN BOTHERED TO SEE IF HE’S OK!!  I HAVENT HEARD FROM HIM ALL SUMMER. FOR ALL YOU KNOW THE DEATH EATERS COULD HAVE KIDNAPPED HIM IN ALL THE CONFUSION AFTER THE BATTLE!” Hermione yelled at the shocked woman. She’d never before lost her temper at a teacher, but the bushy haired girl had finally reached her limit. Grief was a natural reaction to death, and she was sick and tired of her time of mourning being interrupted. In a sickly sweet voice she’d added, “Wouldn’t it be ironic… the Order, the very organization sworn to protect him… losing _the Boy Who Lived_.”

                She hadn’t seen McGonagall’s reaction but she suspected that the old Scottish woman’s lips had thinned and her wrinkly fists had tightened. But when she’d glanced over, all she’d seen was a slamming door as her former professor had stormed out of the room. Smirking, Hermione had simply returned her gaze to the charmed window fixing her eyes on the fake sunset. If she had known that her grief induced rant had been so close to the truth, the brunette would not have been so pleased with herself.

                As it happened, an hour later she’d heard raised voices coming from the basement kitchen and within minutes a pounding of footsteps up the stairs before what seemed to be the entire Order poured into her temporary sanctuary she’d fashioned out of the little dusty parlor room. It was then that she’d learned that Harry hadn’t been at his home in Surrey. When his family had been questioned they’d claimed he’d run away just over a week ago. The news had chilled Hermione to the bone. She’d been right. Those blasted Death Eaters had kidnapped her best friend. Harry was probably dead right now; just like Ron. She was alone.

                It had been exactly eighteen hours, nine minutes and forty three seconds since she’d heard the news. Her eyes were still fixed on the spot where Hagrid had stood when he’d told her that her other friend was gone. Somehow her mind still couldn’t rap around the fact that she’d never see Harry again. They’d tried to comfort her with delusions. They’d said he might still be alive. But she knew deep down that her old friend was gone. She knew Harry hadn’t run away. He would have come to Headquarters or possibly the Burrow. He wouldn’t have put her through this torture if he’d been alive. He wouldn’t have run away, which meant that the Death Eaters had come for him. And Hermione knew what that meant. It meant they’d taken him to Voldemort.

                She felt her eyes start to prick. But she refused to cry. Consoling herself with thoughts of Harry being reunited with his parents, the remaining third of the Golden Trio tried to imagine life without ever talking to her green eyed friend again. First Ron, now Harry. When would the carnage end?

                But at that moment Hermione was violently yanked out of her sea of pity by the door to the parlor being blasted open. Jerking up, she watched dazedly as Fred and George marched into the room. Neither of them looked to be in spirits. In fact they were both glaring at her with twin expressions of distaste. As they approached her chair, she watched their lanky limbs and matching tufts of ginger hair move angrily towards her. She couldn’t imagine why they were there.

                “For fucks sake, Hermione! Stop—”

                “—this ridiculous pity party! Get it—”

                “—together! You’re not the only one who’s lost someone.”

                The Twins glared down at her with disgust…and most shockingly disappointment.

                She was so surprised at their expressions of censure that she almost didn’t notice when she burst into tears.

                “B-but I-I loved th-them!” H-how c-can I j-just—” she gestured wildly with her arms, her words stuttered and nearly incoherent through the sobbing.

                “That doesn’t mean you get to sit up here and wallow in self-pity. Everyone else loved them too.”

                “Yeah, Hermione. We loved them too. He was our brother…”

                “And Harry was our friend.”

                And with that the twins slumped down next her on the sofa, one on either side. For the next two hours they kept her company while they mourned for the ones they had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Talhaern means iron fist and vice is defined as immoral conduct or a flaw in someone’s behavior/character. Sometimes I’m a genius. Also this is the last chapter I had already written so I'm not sure when my next update will be. I'M SO SORRY! /covers face and runs away/

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone even like it? I'm going to try to post every Tuesday but sometimes I (always) forget. Sorry!


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